


Six Cups Of Tea

by azhiraz



Category: Dimash Kudiabergen, Heterosexual content
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 29,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azhiraz/pseuds/azhiraz
Summary: ***Work in progress***Rising international  pop-opera star Dimash Kudiabergen  is trying so hard to reach his dream of being a top world-class performer. However, he’s not feeling free as he imagined as his fame grows and he prepares for his first tour.  He is obsessed about his public image; he is too perfect, so selfless and accommodating to all.  His worried manager Alpamys looks  for help before it is too late,  but it comes in a most unexpected way – with a cup of tea.
Comments: 6





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: I do not own or lay claim to creation of any of the musical artist's work mentioned. This fanfiction was not written with any intent of profit or gain, unless one counts the gentle notoriety of writing a rather racy fantasy of a well-mannered opera star.

The Dimash entourage is getting ready for a tour. They are all ready to work hard on the performance, the music, the choreography and the million details that make a world-class tour, but what they work at the hardest is trying to impress the young talent and live up to the name. Everyone, down to the costume crew, the roadies, the backups, the planners and musicians fall under his spell, or at least act like they are spellbound.   
They pay attention to each gesture and response, squeaking and groaning over the least nuance, currying favor, getting into squabbles and spats as they establish their pecking order and subtly or not so subtly jockey for the prize: to be with Dimash. 

  
It seems reasonable that almost everyone wants a piece of Dimash, once they see him. The Kazakh has an incredible combination of talents with a vocal range that spans six octaves, a six foot three inch frame animated with charisma and charm, a healthily diverse wealth portfolio, and the face of a wickedly innocent angel tinted in Kazakh gold and jet. Men and women swoon over his performances on stage, and chase him incessantly just to see his sweet smile flash in their direction.

  
So, everyone essential to the entourage and tour planning was currently cooped up in a large mansion house in a suburb of London, chosen for its proximity to a small jewel box of a concert hall that was also theirs for rehearsals, hired by Dimash’s PR manager Alpamys Sharimov. The entourage was taken care of by a small group of domestic help handpicked by the peerless Alpamys. He considered it a trial run for being added to the tour, as they needed trustworthy people who could help care for the musicians and the road crew so they could concentrate on their all-important job of making each performance go off without a hitch. Media and paparazzi were a constant threat; bribes to get intimate photos and belongings were frequent. It took a rare person who was clever yet loyal to stand up to them and keep the performer’s and crew’s images safe from rumor and strife. The entertainment world thrives on rumors to keep interest high in their celebrities, but negative behavior, even implied, could crash the profits of any film or tour.

  
The entourage immediately inundated the new help with mountains of laundry and demands for the reorganization of the living arrangements; they rapidly got on a first name basis with Sean, the first cook, a thin energetic Irishman who ruled his kitchen with absolute authority. They dallied with the servers, sweet-talking them all for coffee drinks and alterations to dishes to suit their largely imagined special dietary needs. They gave Alec, the major domo, monstrous lists of supplies and bribes to ensure their order gets filled first and teased his cleaning staff for more towels, whom were all plump as capons and chattered like every day was Sunday. 

  
But no one really pays attention to the second cook, except when they are hungry. She is quiet, her calm face always bare of makeup, her figure hidden by loose , but impeccably clean work clothing, some days a cook’s jacket and apron, some days scrubs, and always a vaguely oriental tunic and pants on Sundays. Second cook works in the evenings, supplementing first cook’s two sous chefs if the dining room was full of crew members or guests, then finished the kitchen cleaning and prepared bread for the next day’s breakfast. The lighting team and sound techs start earliest, and they eat heartily; the singers, dancers and musicians drift in later, but eat pickily or not at all until their rivals leave, so as not to lose face for gorging on carbohydrates or miss a choice bit of gossip on the changes in the pecking order. 

  
But mostly second cook is there for the late night individuals who are hungry. Alpamys informed them all that Dimash expressly wished that no one leaves his ‘house‘ hungry. They must all concentrate on the great vision of the performance, everything must be thought of to the last detail, or it will not be the world class tour that will make them all the millions their investors expect and hope for. 

  
So second cook Crystal arrives at 7 PM promptly, cooks, cleans, showers in the crew bath, then rests in a closet by the kitchen rigged into a bedroom until 5 AM. If someone is hungry, they text her number, then she opens the kitchen and cooks. She is a superb short order cook, and she surprises everyone with her vast knowledge of cuisines; the Koreans deemed her mak kimchi authentic; the Chinese do not complain about her sense of fire in the flavor, nor do the Indians sneer at her use of masalas and chilies; Europeans appreciate her ways with baked goods. She seems like many things, yet nothing at all, like a Japanese sensei. Crystal listens attentively like a bartender to anyone who comes, no matter what the hour, and always brews a cup of tea tailored to them to ensure they will make it back to their room or their home and rest comfortably. 

  
In fact, it was this customized act of kindness that aroused the curiosity of the star Dimash. At first, he never paid her any mind, she was a pair of hands to his mind for weeks. The Chinese pianist Wu Xiang Ji loved her jujube tea, because she always knew to put a pinch of cinnamon in to allay the damp cold that arose in the early spring nights in London. He appreciated that attention to detail and delighted in many comforting dishes from his home province in Yunnan. So when he and Dimash worked late on an arrangement he naturally texted Crystal for tea and a light dish vs. going out to a late night café like Dimash liked to do. The star of the show liked the neatly uniformed pretty girls and boys behind the counter, the confections arranged so perfectly in glass cases like artwork and the warm woods decorating the nooks. It was so different than the rental house. The house was just that. A place to practice, sleep and shower. he felt uncomfortable with European manners and he rapidly became reticent, further creating a divide between his public face and personal feelings.

  
Crystal had lit the stove by the time they arrived; Wu pushed through the kitchen door and settled himself comfortably into a chair by the island with Dimash, sniffing appreciatively at the scent of ginger and garlic hitting hot oil. She deftly worked the small wok pan, tossing in a little lap cheong sausage, paper thin cut napa cabbage from a head on the cutting board, then finishing with glass noodles and a bit of chile paste thinned with Shiaoxing wine. The two musicians talked idly, pouring water from the pitcher residing on the countertop as she filled bowls and set out cutlery. Dimash waved his bowl off, aloofly ignoring her as host; Wu ate with one eye on Dimash’s cooling portion, wishing he could take it home to his pretty flat in Chelsea, or take Crystal home for his own cook. _I’d never be able to afford her…maybe I could ask if she could do a dinner party later? Between Hyeon, Su Lin and myself, we can surely afford one night of her cooking._

The untouched bowl was taken away with the empty bowl and replaced with two steaming cups of tea while the conversation continued. Wu smiled a little at the sight of his personal cup, a pretty blue and white piece of chinaware with a design of peonies. The sweet scent of rehydrated jujube with ginger and freshly grated cinnamon revived his palate and soothed his nerves, so he kindly agreed to make the changes Dimash wanted to showcase his voice in the 2nd and 3rd stanzas vs. arguing. The singer was verbose, quaffing a strong black tea subtly spiced with cardamom, sweetened with orange blossom honey and smoothed with milk. It had been properly served in a sweet turquoise Kazakh cup touched up with gilt, and properly filled halfway to keep the tea hot. Crystal unobtrusively refilled every time he set it down, keeping her eyes on Wu, whom she also refilled, but following Wu’s cues when he held the cup out or placed it nearer to her, letting Wu control how much he wanted. 

The pair finally bid their goodbyes, the pianist politely waiting for Dimash to lead the way out when his hand was nudged. Crystal silently passed off a box of the noodles to him and quickly retreated; Wu began to smile widely at the mark of favor and free meal, but snapped the look off his face as DImash looked back from the kitchen door and reminded him to come by at 2 vs. noon. He wasn't about to let Dimash know his secret treasure. 

It wasn’t until Dimash was eating breakfast the next morning that he realized second cook had given proper respect to his country’s tea.   
He helped himself to a plate from the small buffet, and asked one of the servers for tea, since he saw only juice set out and coffee pots in hands. Dismayed, he gave the server a look as she carelessly set a brimming cup of Yorkshire Gold down with a teapot, hurrying away to serve the others in the room. _I don’t feel like I am master here, in this house when this one serves. Hell, nobody in the damned wet country know show to serve tea nicely._ He had a moment of flashback, recalling last night’s discussion and the endless dainty half cups of tea poured as if he was a treasured guest to be kept at the table as long as possible; _Ehh…what a smooth operator second cook was…it was like I was in my own home, I didn’t even notice her at all. I wonder who trained her in Kazakh way? She doesn’t look Kazakh or Russian. In fact, I have no idea where she is from._

He turned his gaze away from the serving girl, now hurriedly pouring coffee for a table of soundmen and encountered Alpamy’s eyes, looking at him thoughtfully. Dimash blushed, sure his angry expression was visible to everyone and composed his face into a smooth mask, slightly smiling at his friend and manager to reassure him it was good, he was unaffected by a measly serving girl displaying rude tea manners.

  
Alpamys smiled warmly, but kept his worries for a conversation that evening with a friend in a little pub near the hospital, where his friend worked. He was secure in the fact he could talk freely, Dimash never drank alcohol except on special occasions, and scrupulously cared for his golden throat in the change of seasons happening right now. Winter to spring was the worst for respiratory illnesses in this country, so he was not going to take chances of losing money on his first tour. 

  
“So, you have started the tour rehearsal? That mansion is a popular celebrity rental – Laura Fabian was there last summer. Oh my god, you should have seen the fit she threw at her sound crew at the Italian restaurant on Greene Street, Alpamys. I never knew a woman who could curse in 3 different languages. I found myself adoring her. I bet your young man is a handful, now that‘s he’s over the age of consent, eh? Is it girls? A boy? Is he already another Polunin and won’t stop tattooing himself? ”

  
“ Oh, if only it was so simple, my friend! He is so perfectly kind to everyone. Nothing is criticized; he never gets angry….and that’s what bothers me. Every star I have managed goes through something, but this is unlike anything I have experienced. “

  
“Ah. It’s not that unusual for someone to react to fame this way. Most of them go in the other direction, and think they are ten feet tall and bulletproof. He may be protecting himself or he may have the fear no one will love him if they see who he really is. Someone has to encourage him to open up a little. Teach him to get angry, in a healthy way. What’s on your mind? Therapy sessions? An intervention? “

  
“Can there be something more subtle? If I bring in a doctor, he’ll worry even more it’s all on him to make us or break us. If he has a breakdown, his career will never recover. His people, his fans, they may understand, but he never will. I would hate to see his spirit broken in such a way. The world needs him.”

  
“Perhaps.” A comfortable silence fell as a hand scrolled through a lengthy cell phone contact list, pausing on a few names. “ I will make some calls. It may just take someone in the right place-right moment to get him to talk a little, express himself with honesty. It doesn’t take a board-certified psychologist for the rich and famous to do that.”

  
“True. I’ll take anyone you have. I trust your judgement. But remember he’s not a total idiot. He quite shrewd about human nature - He has a nose for liars, journalists and paparazzi. In fact, don’t tell me who you send until later. I don’t want him to ferret anything out of me – you know how he is – non-stop charm delivered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer 24 hours a day until you give in. I wish he’d get pissed off. It’d be so much healthier than this Mr. Nice-guy-until-it-hurts. I have a tour to organize and I can’t protect him much longer. He has to mature and learn to face up to the fact not everything he does and says will be agreeable to everyone.” 

  
“ Well….there is one….an expert in post-trauma stress disorders; has had battlefield experience as well as mental health counseling. The qualifications are quite good. Just don’t be surprised.”

  
“Eh? Why?” A phone was handed over and Alpamys inspected the contents being shown. He said in a very interested voice: “Really? Well, that saves us a great deal of trouble. Go ahead. Let’s try it.” 


	2. Chapter Two

Saturday was a trying day. The pitch of the vocals was off and it took hours before they realized the headsets were bending the pitch by a half step. Anyone would have given a solid ‘dammit, that’s what I pay you for’ to the head sound man, but no, not Dimash. The vocalists half expected him to at least demand an apology for the heated words exchanged earlier, come to their defense that they were not crazy bitches for saying the tone was off, but he merely took a deep breath, bowed his head and walked off with an ever-so-polite “I’ll be back. Text me when fixed.” He was glimpsed outside the concert hall walking aimlessy in circles with an uncharacteristic frown on his smooth face, which dissolved into a tremulous smile if he caught anyone looking at him. 

  
_Dimash is so worried_ they all said to themselves, as the sound crew and chorus carried on their spat through the sound fix and made up over dinner. They all stayed until 11 PM to rehearse the vocals and drifted off, leaving Alpamys, Wu and Dimash at ten minutes to midnight with hunger pangs. They’d skipped dinner to work on a last minute arrangement of the opening piece, and it was Wu who texted second cook with a request for the comfort of dumplings and tea to settle his stomach before driving home. At first Alpamys and Dimash almost rejected the meal, when they saw second cook emerging from the walk-in freezer with a bag of dumplings; but Wu almost laughed as he reassured them that second cook made them herself, and made large quantities because everybody he knew always asked for them. The dumplings were served with gratifying speed, Wu’s with a petite dish of black vinegar and dipping chiles, Alpamys and Dimash’s portions garnished with rich sour cream and a generous sprinkle of fresh dill. The thinness of the dumpling skin was delightful, the meat filling well-spiced and soon their stomachs were feeling much happier. Second cook had a low voiced conversation with Wu while the Kazakhs spoke in native language and she spent a few more minutes in the kitchen, returning with a teapot and three cups of Kazakh work, a pretty turquoise set. The tea was served simply, properly blended with milk and sugar, and a plate of wafer thin spice cookies with a cut up orange just for Wu was slid forward for all to enjoy with their after-dinner conversation. Second cook tirelessly refilled cups, silently observing each cup as it hit the table, pouring a precise half cup each time until the pot was emptied. Another pot was brought on velvet shod feet and just as attentively poured as the conversation took wings between the three men. There were no spills, no rush to get them to leave, no slopping of tea over the pretty gilt rims to spoil their clean hands or drip on shirt cuffs. When the conversation took a comfortable pause, Dimash abruptly eyed second cook with a sudden suspicion and sharply asked: “Where you come from?” In his limping English.

  
Alpamys mood changed, his face composed itself into a smooth mask as he heard a note of something less than dulcet in his charge’s tone. Intrigued at the break in his protégé’s angelic mask, he smiled at second cook and nodded, continuing in his more polished English: “Dimash is curious where you have come from in the world, lady. I confess I am confused, as not many know proper tea manners from our home.”  
Second cook surprisingly replied in tolerable Russian:”Mr. Shapirov, I have had many homes. I was the child of a military man, we moved when army told us to move. I am happy that I have served Kazakh tea properly, thank you.” 

  
Dimash took this in with his head tilted, jet hair spilling over a mistrustful eye, as the stilted simplicity of the words belied the expression that flitted across her face; He could tell she was somehow irritated with him, yet had enough sense to tame her emotions, a thoroughly dangerous combination in a woman. But it rather thrilled him, this sudden little mystery of a night cook who was not quite what she wanted to seem. He would give some thought to the future interactions with this second cook. He could have sworn she did tea manners just to catch his attention; all women tried to catch his attention one way or another. But he’d never had a foreigner use his culture to say without saying ‘look at me’. Well, then. He would give her a good look. 

  
Dimash then shocked Alpamys twofold: first by announcing the following criticism and second by saying it in Russian, so the woman would understand: “The servers are poorly trained, it is disrepectful. I almost had tea spilled on me Friday. Tell first cook to train them. No. Tell him second cook is to train them. Or they will not serve me anymore.” Alpamys nodded and noted it in his Ipad. Who’d have thought what a well-served cup of tea would do for his friend’s confidence? It was the first sign of Dimash speaking his mind, so he began to feel a ray of hope for Dimash’s secret dilemma. Perhaps this woman could help him. He would keep his ear open when she was near.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit : Britney Spears owns the ultra-sexy Breathe lyrics. again, there is no intent of profit or gain, its all for the fun of it.

More late nights for the trio of star, manager and composer came in the next two weeks; the servers were annoyed at first at being corrected by Alpamys and complained no one had told them when they were hired. However, they became interested in spite of themselves; any chance of catching the eye of the gorgeous young man or his equally good looking security staff made it worth it to try to learn. 

  
But the first cook and major domo were harried men, and failed to hold the servers accountable after the culture class; decent tea service peaked around day 5 and went downhill rapidly. Dimash began to feel more and more irritated with the kitchen staff and his face began to show it. He frowned, or paused in his conversation, giving a look that could only be described as scornful. He declined to say anything out right, but a few times he abruptly pushed away from the table as if it had no hospitality to offer him. By the third week, Dimash started showing a distinct preference for meeting with Alpamys and others later at night, so second cook was kept on her toes with many versions of tea and food. The evenings passed by quickly and she got a better sense of what the key players in the tour like from listening to the discussions and seemed largely unaware she was being studied also. Dimash puzzled over her in the quiet of his room at night, noting the lack of curiosity in his presence, the loose clothing that gave her an asexual appearance, the smallness of her bare face and wondered why she didn’t act like all the others; she wasn’t a dear or a sycophant, yet totally, humbly servile in the kitchen; she was a closed book he couldn’t read in a glance, and it began to intrigue him. What secret was she hiding? 

  
It pleased him to play these games at times, to see the motive that drove others to look at him with big eyes or fawn over him; but this was more of a game to see why she didn’t fall for him and jump when he glanced her way. He’d figured out already she wasn’t a journalist, or someone could be bribed easily. But something in him didn't believe the portrait she painted of herself; she was hiding something and he was going to find out what it was. 

  
So he tested her mettle. He criticized her food, and she would directly remove it and ask what aspect displeased him vs. being defensive of her skill. He knew nothing of pizza, yet ordered one because he heard a couple of men in the male chorus moaning over an Italian place in the neighborhood. The hot cheese burned his mouth and he outright growled at second cook it was inedible, why did she cook it for him when she knew it was so? She brusquely retorted over 200 million pizzas had been eaten by 19 million people in the last year, and they apparently did not find them inedible – besides, why didn’t he ask her the correct manner to eat a pizza? It was not Kazakh food or Russian food, so it was his own fault for burning his mouth. He was stunned at first then rather gleeful when he figured out he'd said his worst about something she was supposed to be good at, and she simply shrugged it off. On a deeper level his psyche realized he could say something unpleasant and she didn't care.

  
He began a game of texting at odd hours in night, asking about foods he’d never tasted, hinting he wanted to eat, then changing his mind, almost giggling at the mental picture of her running around the kitchen in a panic to find the ingredients he deemed exotic. He was rather surprised when she texted back lists of dishes she could prepare and sent him a small deluge of facts about the ingredient with photos or links to food blogs he could translate. He began to feel more confident when going out for business lunch and started to tell the servers what he wanted instead of being told what was prepared.   
One night when they were alone in the kitchen after a particularly intensive session of food questions that taxed second cook’s abilities in her limited Russian, her voice neatly checkmated him with : “Can you teach more Kazakh tea manners? I am not good at Russian translation.” Dimash felt a proud glow suffuse his face and his vanity was suddenly tickled. The constant barrage of feminine flirtation had jaded him over the past five years as he matured into a man, and he was actually relieved he could interact as a normal person and not have to wear the mask of the charming lover. 

  
She brought out her cell, and played videos from the YouTube app, asking about the utensils and the side dishes in simple Russian. His diffident, sulky manner disappeared as he walked through how he served tea at home, rummaged through the great refrigerators to find tastes he enjoyed and soon was feeling a glow of warmth and ease he hadn’t felt for a long time; he spoke in an unfettered fashion, even with a curse word or two when he couldn’t make himself understood to the clear-eyed woman next to him, even grasping her hands to hold the pot just so and bring the cup down to pour the tea in great glittering arcs into the dainty cups. He felt gratified when she finally looked at him with a sidelong flirt of greenish grey and smiled with a genuine pleasure. 

That untutored, uncalculated response stayed with him as he stretched out on his bed and let the cool cotton soothe his body into a restful state; he could never get enough of these late night moments, where he had time to himself. He felt better than he had when they started the rehearsals, perhaps the kitchen nights allowed him to let his true self express itself without the image of Dimash the world’s rising star coloring his every action and word, down to how he even breathed in public. 

  
He flipped on his little MP3 music player and let some popular music tracks ease his mind to sleep; as he let himself fade into a soft warm darkness the soft drone of the bass and the woman’s soft sultry voice began to paint a picture against his closed eyelids; it was sensual, sexy and oh so subtle to think of a pair of lips gently producing the soft puffs of air caressing his ankle peeping out from the crumpled sheets. ... _It's not complicated, we're just syncopated, we can read each others minds…. Don't even need to touch me baby, just breathe on me…._

  
The lips travelled up his leg and his mind supplied a distant memory of a soft exhale against his neck as he laid there in silent bliss, his muscles unknotting from a long day of choreography, the throbbing aches in the long limbs subsiding as another kind of ache began to slowly build inside, one that demanded something he couldn’t put any name to. He sought his invisible seducer, his youthful virile body moving restlessly in the sheets, a soft gleam of sweat on the high forehead rumpling the black silk locks, but could only remember a flicker of green as he climaxed and fell back down to earth, gently panting as he drifted into a welcome slumber. 

  
When he did his video shoot the next two days for “Mademoiselle Hyde”, he found himself imagining the actress, a superlative beauty with hair and eyes to match his own was not the vapid person his manager had hired, but someone else looking at him with the same sidelong flirtatious gaze of hazel green, bringing a throbbing pulse to his veins. As the shoot continued into the evening, he had someone order tea for him on break, and made second cook stand there pouring tea and wait until next break. His secret self enjoyed watching her serve him in front all these people like no one else mattered but him, and he did not fail to note how his little entourage reacted to the scene.

He resumed the shoot with considerably more verve, as he knew an audience of one has never seen him exert his charms with full force and hoped the teapot would come crashing down later to spill secret feelings as much as the near-sacred liquid. He raised lambent eyes to the camera as he mouthed the words to the recorded soundtrack, the steadfast onyx melting with the blaze of red-hot passion , now coyly masked by lowered lids in mock innocence, only to appear more enchanting when veiled with a ruff of thick lashes. His ultra slim body moved with a masculine grace that none had seen before as he captured the actress in the choreographed dance movements and a shocking, teasing glimpse of tongue running across the wolfish panting mouth after the refrain.

This video shoot was not the pretty set of tableaus that they had planned but a darker interpretation thrilling everyone in the room; it was like seeing Dracula seduce his victim, or like the first time the phantom of the opera appeared to the hapless Christine Daae. The video director and his crew knew they had a hit, as grins were passed around at the end of the shoot, the director eagerly packing up to run to his own studio and edit while the mood of the room was still fresh in his mind. Second cook somehow disappeared with the teapot in the aftermath, but several people noted to pay her more mind from this point on. The electric current that had arced between them during the break was palpable and they wondered what had caused it. 


	4. Chapter Four

The next evening’s dinner was more crowded than usual; the gossip about the video shoot had circulated and many were now eager to see how it was between the two. Some of the more cattish in the entourage criticized their vegan entrée which they knew was prepared by the second cook that night, and one girl was sly enough to ensure her portion spilled on second cook’s apron and tittered at the slop she was served. 

  
“Slop? You sit at my table in my house and take my money, and you say I have no hospitality to offer?” A lovely tenor voice cut in over the murmur of the dining room, its tones frosty as Siberia. Dark eyes were directed at the soprano in a surprising glare of anger as the star let his temper rise and bubble over a little at this foolish act of bitchery. He waved the woman over with an exaggerated sense of cordiality; ‘Here, my dear. Bring the plate, too. Let us see what slop you have been served.” He arrogantly speared a bite off the plate that was shaking due to Irina’s suddenly nerveless fingers, and chewed thoughtfully. “ Ah, yes. I see. Perhaps you should season your dish with a little less jealousy and a little more gratitude, Irina.” He handed the plate over to a server continuing with his lesson: ”She can cook her own if she continues like this tomorrow. Tell first cook. Now, Irina…you think I neglect you as 2nd soprano? Why should I always come to you? Perhaps you neglect me. I thought I was the reason you sang so prettily at the audition. You said you wanted to duet with me one day. How hard have you worked to make that happen? When was the last time you poured me a cup of tea?”

  
He tilted his head back from his seated position, holding her in a powerful gaze. The proud second soprano was blushing and avoiding his eyes, until she couldn’t and helplessly met his scrutiny, hard as black diamonds. He wordlessly gestured to the teapot on the table and she sat, and poured him a cup, now softly apologizing and rapidly began to talk to return things to normal. The clatter and din of the dining room returned, but Dimash’s expression never softened, especially when tea spilled as she impolitely pushed the overfilled cup forward instead of handing it to him. He stopped her hand dabbing at his wet sleeve cuff with a napkin and ever so quietly said: “See. That is why. You have a lovely voice, why else are you placed so highly here? If you really want that duet to happen, then practice for that. It suits you much better than serving tea.”

  
A wondrous thing happened. Irina genuinely smiled. Dimash had been an anxious, nervous wreck inside, thinking the spat would become tomorrow’s headlines, but it seemed to wash away into something minor, a mere misunderstanding. She went off with a bounce in her step to rejoin her friends and there were no stares of horror or dismay, just people eating and a few nodding sagely at the outcome. 

  
He caught head cook’s eye in dining room door and Sean walked forward; Dimash asked where second cook was, as she had disappeared from the dining room. Sean sent a server on the run for her, and was waved away as soon as a familiar figure appeared, clad in street clothes and a heavy coat, obviously caught leaving the premises. He was feeling full of courage now, and raised his voice in a command that he hoped would brook no opposition.

"Second cook. Come here." he made sure to say it in Russian, so no one would misunderstand what happened between them.

  
Crystal walked forward, black leather boots softly slapping against the hem of her skirt. She'd missed Irina's set-down and stood there with an impassive face awaiting the criticism she felt sure his hidden side was about to deliver. But this time she was not going to be the blank mannequin. Perhaps it was time for everyone to see the Mr. Hyde in their dear Dimash….and let him see how they felt about it. She had a night off. And she was going to enjoy it and be damned to the consequences. She was fed up with this anxiety-ridden spoilt toothpick of a man. 

  
“Serve me tea.” He commanded, his eyes intent on her face for any sign, any reaction. She turned to walk into the kitchen and change back into uniform, but he held up his elegant hand to stop her. “Take that tray from her - look behind you. And take off the coat. I do pay the heating bill here.” He lightly commented, his tone amusing.   
The watchers of the little drama laughed and turned back to eat and drink again, but with sharpened ears, eager to hear what surprise announcement their star would produce next. 

Crystal shrugged her coat off, the lithe body a surprise, elegantly clad for an evening out in a dress that accentuated her curves, yet seemed a bit rock-n-roll with the boots and hair flowing free instead neatly braided or scarfed. Her face had cosmetics applied with a light hand, and somehow she seemed not so plain anymore, a with an unconscious air of confidence they’d overlooked. She took away Dimash’s spilled cup and laid a napkin down, then once a tray had been obtained from the servers hands, she lightly filled another ornate red and gold cup with more tea, drawing the spout away from the cup to pour in a pretty golden brown stream that hit the ear with a musical tinkle of sound. She carefully stopped halfway and placed it in his hands with a graceful turn of her hand, later nudging a small plate of bread closer to be nibbled on with the tea. She stepped back and stood there for another quarter hour, while he conversed with Alpamys and Wu, constantly refilling his cup and silently cueing the servers with dessert and fruit to refill the tiny dessert plates.

The delicate tea pot was finally empty and he finally appeared to take notice; he silently took a measured look at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time, then gestured to a server, whom ran off and came back with Crystal’s parka. The observers felt titillating thrill when Dimash stood up, and with a sureness that implied intimacy, he draped the parka on her shoulders, carefully drawing the neck closed and sending her off with: “Be careful outside. Rains that start after dusk become heavier after midnight here. You best be back before then.”

Crystal gave him a direct, enigmatic look, then evaded further dialogue with a small knife-stab in master Dimash’s ear: “Before midnight? I’ll be out dancing ‘til dawn, sir.” 

  
Stunned, Dimash blinked open-mouthed, his face nakedly displaying displeasure at this outright insubordination as she rapidly turned and made her way outside to escape into town for a night out. Head cook Sean shrugged with mock indifference and placated his god with an entirely unpalatable offering: ” Um. Its second cooks night off. She’s been on 2nd shift ever since we moved in 6 weeks ago and no break. Alpamys said to give her 2 days off. ”

  
The observers clucked and smiled, the pressure off as they resumed their dessert and saluted the cleverness of how the silent second cook had escaped the scene, leaving their master to silently fuss and fume at her desertion tonight. At least it wasn’t them that would expect a dismissal in two days.

  
In the meantime, second cook Crystal had arrived at her first destination; she sank into a well-worn chair with a sigh of relief and held her hand out for a steaming cup of England’s best. Her host peered over his designer framed eyeglasses with a twinkle that belied the iron grey strands in his mane. 

“How’s it going?” was also blandly offered as an opening to the conversation with his former intern. 

  
“…Like I have any idea what’s going on at this point?”

  
They laughed comfortably at their old repartee, before settling into a long discussion, punctuated with sharp insights and ending a good two hours later, leaving a clutter of books and open window tabs on the laptop along with the teacups on the worn desktop.  
Crystal still felt like she had to shake the early evening’s events; she still felt the scorch of the young man’s gaze and was glad of the days off. Staying a step ahead with emotional detachment was a difficult position to maintain; she certainly felt the pull of the lifestyle of the tour and it seemed the handsome young talent sucked all the air out of the room whenever he was present, so she decided to make good on her idle threat to dance until dawn. 


	5. Chapter Five

After the crew left to pursue their plans for the evening, Dimash was still smarting. He decided to be driven into town, calling his inner circle and capturing two of five to go with him and suffer his mood. He was actually far less nervous than usual and his companions found him more open to trying London nightlife and directed his driver to a lesser-known but popular place the major domo’s staff insisted was the best place to dance the night away. 

The music was electric, and far too loud for his taste, but it was bearable in a private booth. He felt happy to be watching everybody swirling and stamping fueled by the enormous wall of alcohol behind the fancy bar; he was glad he’d gotten out and taken a break from the incessant practice. One companion was tempted to the dance floor by a ravishing blonde and he gave them quite a show, as he was once in ballet school, before he outgrew the height requirement. 

Dimash wished he could move better, he was self-conscious about the thinness of his body, when he compared himself to his other countrymen. He reminded himself for the millionth time to quit thinking about everything he wasn’t and use what he had, which god had gifted him with in plenty. He eventually let himself get dragged onto the dance floor and make a decent go at it, and managed to stay moving for a set; much later he was leaning up against a railing, easing the burn in his thighs and aglow with sweat, gulping water and eying the pretty girls like any other guy. He momentarily recalled second cook’s words and snorted delicately to no one in particular that he was sure he’d out danced her. No one paid him any attention and it suited him just fine. 

  
He wanted to be a nobody tonight and just be just another man on the hunt to capture a prize of a soft body with a will and strength to oppose him; he wanted a fight. Not the kind of fight that ends with bruises, blood and tears, but another kind of fight, the kind that rips part any barrier that impeded him , whether it be fought with sweet words or fiery caresses that made the heart pound and an invisible tsunami of feeling swell and break its boundaries of flesh to express his truest innermost self, his very soul to god and the heavens. But he could never break free with anyone or anything except with music. It wasn’t like he didn’t try, he’d had countless encounters to crack open the door between body and spirit. It’d be so easy tonight to do just that. Try. 

He never questioned his nature, he was born with a duality of soul, a gemini that could be fluidly one way to others and quite another in his mind. He enjoyed the game of seduction, having been taught by his culture to pursue ardently, it was key to the identity of the male role in the relations between man and woman. His singing, in a way, was a way to pursue the arousal of desire and tender feelings of everyone who heard him. He didn’t know who he was trying to seduce, but he just knew he’d feel it, that invisible click of magnetic attraction. 

  
So with a shrug, he carelessly tossed his bottle and jumped back onto the dance floor.  
___________________________________________________________  
Crystal’s evening had rapidly devolved into a haze of alcohol and movement, interspersed with a number of partners trying to get past dancing and into her bed or into theirs. _Ohhh it’s definitely Friday night in London, all the geeky blokes are out for a bit of skirt._

She rejected them all, none of had the quality she was looking for and more she drank, the harder it became to name it. She drifted into another nightclub and began a serious conversation with vodka as the DJ fed his addicts their fix of thick fat bass and driving beats.   
She let her thoughts go into freefall and got into conversations with complete strangers; “ Ya know, it’s the absolute bloody passion this generation missed, it’s all video and games and sexting, no one dares get their hands dirty with the actual feel of a naked body, much less get intimate with someone’s deepest thoughts, ya know?? “

“Oh yeah, pretty bird, I hear you…so what are you trying to say? You got a nasty fantasy you can’t tell me about? I’ll tell you mine if you wanna know….how about I lift that skirt and shag you on the bar, right here, right now?”

Crystal briefly allowed herself the fantasy of introducing his face to the floor, but let the alcohol do the talking and merely laughed then moved on deeper into the packed nightclub, pausing at the rail surrounding the dance floor.

Now, she’d seen some pretty rowdy scenes in the American nightclubs, but this place was on an entirely new level for her; it was like a small orgy on the dance floor, only everyone had clothes on. A frottage fetishist would have been all over it. She kept to the edges of the floor party, and danced only twice; the center was not only hot, but sweaty. She reeled away back to the rail and drank some more vodka, mixed with tonic this time and suddenly gaped in disbelief. 

She glimpsed DImash nearby, a fine sheen of sweat on his face; his dark undershirt under his unbuttoned shirt was starting to show patches of damp, where the sweat had seeped into the fabric. His partner was quite scantily clad in a sequined dress, grinding her hips relentlessly into his, and their complex arm movements wove a cage of intimacy around their space. Unabashed, they were enjoying themselves in a joined rhythm, sizzling with passionate gestures; then he reached down, her hand dragging his onto her thigh, UNDER the dress, then grinning, she spun off his hand and changed position. She was now moving in time with him, her well rounded backside circling into his hips, and be damned if his weren’t moving perfectly with hers also….she rarely saw men who could do that. It was like he had no shame in doing what pleased her most; she bent over and enthusiastically continued to thrust hips into his, then stepped away , arms raised, ready to twirl back into his lean arms, hungry for more pleasure. At that moment he stepped right, and damn if he didn’t catch Crystal looking at him.

  
Crystal snapped the _oh my god, this is too much_ look off her face and tried to grin, but failed as the alcohol only let her stare before lifting her glass and taking a healthy imbibement with a wordless salute of defeat. _Ohhh my god. that was the last thing I expected to see....Man, did I misjudge him. Oh well. I figure its none of my business, anyway._

  
Dimash decided to make it his business, though. He moved his partner in front of him, and as they continued to circle their hips in the mockery of the dance of love, he reached down again, his hand disappearing under her dress again and sliding up to caress her between her legs and slide back down; the other hand appeared at her shoulder; gazing at Crystal steadily, he picked up a curl , running it thru his fingers appreciatively; those long lean fingers laid claim to her soft neck and collarbone as he lowered his head, to taste her shoulder with a kiss. He looked up, eyes seemingly commanding the statue named Crystal to _look at me, LOOK at me, I could be doing this to you…I want to do this to you, for you…._

When his head dipped for a 2nd taste of La Enviata’s shoulder, Crystal had bolted from his gaze, leaving an empty glass on the rail, not unlike an ash-girl running home as the magic ran out. Dimash looked at the clock and laughed. Too bad it was 2:56 AM. 


	6. Chapter Six

Saturday morning arrived far too early for Dimash; he had left with Vasiliy, leaving his other companion to the wiles of the ravishing blonde whom had become enthralled with his accent. The security head refused to drive after drinking and they had to wait for a cab to get them back home, so it was nearly 5 AM when they let themselves in. There was no vocal practice that day, just free time for his exercise routine, costume fittings and a personal dance lesson. 

Dimash almost smiled at the last, remembering the burn in his legs last night. Then as other memories drifted in, he blanched and felt the pit of his stomach drop. He feverishly started paging through his social media to see how his evening out was laid out in horrifying, excruciating detail. But nothing was said or even implied. No racy photos of dancing with sex-bomb girls, no inappropriate pictures, no gossip. Nothing. He convinced himself it was only a matter of hours before stories started to circulate, and he obsessively checked Instagram and Variety every half hour, or when he thought of it.

Vasiliy just shrugged when Dimash sought his opinion, and felt rather puzzled, as he’d thought his friend behaved like a man on his night off work, there were no fights or drugs and the place was far off the path for any paparazzi. With a shameful blush, Dimash confessed, nervously looking over Vasiliy’s shoulder for eavesdroppers: “…Vasiliy, I was seen. By her.”

“Eh? Which ‘her’ would that be?” 

“You know. **Her**. Second cook. The one who cut my ear off with her sharp tongue.” 

“Hah. A little jab and you scream like a woman. She could have done worse; that stunt pissed her off. But seriously, no loose pair of lips there, Dimi. I don’t think she is a talker. ” 

“You will protect me if anything gets out, yes?” 

I’ve always got your back, Dimi. No worries.” 

Dimash was visibly relieved, but stiffened when his friend of 7 years looked over his shoulder with his own barbed observation: “…But I do think she plays chess. Like a Russian.”

After an entirely unfocused dance lesson, he decided to hunt down second cook and ensure she kept her tongue between her teeth. He’d charmed first cook Sean for Crystal’s favored hangouts when off work and texted Vasiliy, whom agreed it would be politic to smooth over any wrinkles with second cook. With dry humor Vasily grinned to himself as he sent his assent _…I’d be more concerned about the poison in my meal or the rope she hands you to trip yourself; you worry about the wrong things too much these days, my friend._

  
It took about 2 hours, including a yoga studio, a farmer’s market and a park before he found her. She was taking a slow jog through a pretty riverside trail, quite safe yet secluded that gave it an air of intimacy. Dimash pulled his ballcap down and started at a fairly good pace, scanning for Crystal’s slim figure and braided hair. He spotted her eventually and carefully kept his distance until she finished, lazily stretching in the pale spring sun. 

She did not act defensive when he jogged up, but he did note she touched her hip reflexively and concluded she had a knife on her; so he changed his plan and acted astonished to see her versus an immediate, outright confrontation. Her eyes were startled, but she controlled the impulse to jump and occupied herself with retying her shoelace as if he were not much of anyone to concerned herself with, a mere stranger. 

He smiled with an upsetting charm as he repositioned his hat, running fingers through his glossy jet hair, hoping he looked coltishly appealing in the spring sun.  
“Such lovely scenery , yes? Imagine what you will see on a world tour. Have you been to Kazakhstan?”

She shook her head with the smallest of movements, as if she disdained any contact with him. His instinct began to smoulder, so he set out to capture her attention, to excite her into some display of true feeling, whether it be trite or an eruption. He’d seen it all. He could care less if she would slap his face or slice his ear with another verbal knife. But what mattered was that there would a reaction. 

He suddenly attacked in his accented English: ”What are you? Why you here?” he continued in a swift second parry , this time in Russian: “You don’t fit second cook role. You know many ways, yet you hide your own way. You think I am stupid, eh? Who told you Kazakh tea manners? Are you a spy? A journalist? Pah-pahhhrat-zzzzi? ” he fairly well spat out the last word, his jet eyes flashing , the face sharp with warnings.

Crystal sighed visibly, her annoyance becoming apparent as she stumbled through her simple Russian reply: ”No. No. And NO is my answer to last 3 questions. Yes, you are stupid man today. I am not a bad person, I am _kulturny_. My police record is clear, I am he-” His silver tenor whiplashed through her excuses: “Hah! _Kulturny_! You had the class of a whore wearing that red dress last night! Did you come to the club just to spy on me? Sell my pictures? You want to blackmail me? Oh, just ask for the money, I pay good! And send Vasiliy with his fist!”

  
She suddenly turned and strode forward, bristling at his unjust accusations, a similar sharp expression flooding her face like the blood now reddening her cheeks. _Ahhh…there it is…honor is all to her. A sword, thrown away and now a broom in the kitchen. go ahead, strike, stab me with that sharp tongue. I’m so ready to cross swords._

  
Dimash was surprised to be suddenly landing on his back with a solid grunt of pain as he hit the damp turf. He kept his eyes on her as she looked down, haughty and superior as she sarcastically riposted in English: "So shagging on the dance floor is _kulturny_ in Kazakhstan?”

  
She eyed him with little liking and announced in her simple unpolished Russian: “Bodyguard. I was a bodyguard before second cook. And you would not be there, if you had situational awareness. You borrow trouble.” gesturing at his prone body.

  
_Oh, I’m well aware my dear. If you had any emotional awareness, you’d not be talking to me like this…so, you ARE interested in the game after all..._ He covered his triumph with a bland question: “Does Alpamys know? “

  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he? I don’t lie or try to hide who I am.“ She reverted to her native English: ”I say what I mean and mean what I say.”

  
Dimash looked up with a well-practiced look of helpless boyish charm: “Wait. Too fast. My English is not so good yet. Alpamys approves of you? I not question.”

He stuck his hand out; Crystal relented and put her gloved hand in his to help him back up. He stumbled into her with pretend-clumsiness, daring himself to see what she felt like; he was gratified to know she was firm under the gym clothing and just the right height. He did not like women too short or too thin; his height and slimness was a secret embarrassment in a way, he didn’t want his ungainly proportions to be emphasized, he wanted them to be complemented. She was quite rough for a woman in his opinion, no artifice to enhance her looks, wearing men’s clothing like she was _royozvi_ , a lesbian partner. He caught her eyes and allowed a good look close up, eyes softening from black diamond to liquid silk as he took in her face, finely boned with a mouth made for passion, the lips cleanly molded with a pleasing plumpness and no sticky lipgloss.

With a bit of a shock, he saw she was also measuring him up by her expression, and finding something she didn’t expect: He was sexy. And he came off as guileless. Not a combination she found often in men. 

  
His cell chimed, giving him an excuse to turn away as if it were nothing to be so close for so long. They resumed the roles that they had entered with in their brief dramatic scene; Dimash rapidly strode away chattering away in Russian, leaving Crystal to finish her day along the river walk alone and bemused at the unexpected meeting in the spring afternoon. 


	7. Chapter Seven

  
The Kazakh singer's personality showed a marked change from that weekend. He seemed more vivacious, expressed his opinion more readily and the word ‘no’ was heard on occasion. When second cook returned from her weekend off, she was called into Alpamy’s office. The entourage was all ears and breathlessly waited in the dining room to see an ejection and hopefully some fireworks, but no such thing happened.

Alpamys was a little concerned that Dimash knew about second cook’s prior career, and quickly probed Crystal about the conversation. She readily admitted she’d told Dimash, but had not been pressed for details, nor volunteered anything more. With a rueful laugh, Alpamys explained: 

“Dimash has this way of ferreting out things about people; don’t get me wrong, it’s a simply something he does in self-defence. He is very careful with his image. To him, the paparazzi and media seem more like a horrible tools. They make or destroy a person, just because they can, or don’t do what they expect. He does not want someone else to mold who he is – no one would, yes? It seems the expectations become more and more intimate, he complained it is like being raped an interview at a time. He became very frightened at age 17 after the Chinese ‘I am singer’ contest. Lee Hyeon-su , remember him? The rising Korean pop star? He was convinced the media bullied him into committing suicide. And all just because he didn’t fit the image the media wanted.”

  
“Lee Hyeon-su was under a lot of pressure at home also. In Korea, mental health treatment is socially a taboo, despite the new media campaigns. Is Dimash under pressure at home also?”

  
“No, Kazakhstan is very tolerant. Though most do prefer a conservative image. His family will hope for him to marry, produce children and care for them, but at least they leave him to pursue his career with my help. I’m glad you have asked. Our star performers all have expectations. I will have Vasiliy forward personal profiles for you to read. So, now that he knows a little of your past, he’ll calm down and stop being so nosy-curious about you.” 

Alpamys took a sip of his delicious pomegranate tea and introduced his next question: “There is one thing though – since he knows you’ve been a bodyguard, perhaps you could assist the security team? Like driving the entourage to dress rehearsal or out into the city or airport? In fact, Vasiliy has a creative plan to plant security in the audience near the stage, but keeping their identities in a low profile is also needed. We’ve engaged 2 others from the house crew, and we’d hope you’d consider joining us also. “

  
“What, no tea at 3 AM, Alpamys? “ She rather wittily replied as He called Vasiliy in. They made their pitch, and after a little negotiation, a plan was put in place. Second cook continued to cook at night, but only four nights a week versus seven. After the first evening out, Dimash made a demand, which resulted in Alpamys enigmatically pushing over an envelope to Crystal as he drank his tea with Dimash and Vasiliy that night. Puzzled, Crystal opened it and studied a list of business names and a card.

Dimash informed her with a slight sense of gleeful malice: “If you must body guard, then don’t look the part.”

  
Vasiliy grunted assent and added: “Make sure you can run in the shoes. You never know what can happen. Get a concealed carry permit if you do not have one that is up-to-date. Study the videos of the concerts and dress to fit the crowd. you will always be strategically placed near the stage."

  
Over the next two weeks, as the show became polished into its grand vision, Crystal’s days were spent in beauty spas, salons and clothing shops, where she was outfitted elegantly and reimagined into an image of a lady. She almost did not recognize herself in a subtly shaded chiffon dress and fashionable caged sandals. There was no jewelry, but the shoes were a subtle rose gold metallic leather that set off the tint of the dress, and she could run in them. She had been self-conscious of her hardworking hands, but a nail tech did a miracle so her skin looked unmarked and smooth with a palest tint of rose gold to complement the ensembles. She looked stunningly chic, yet fresh-faced enough to blend in with the crowds with exciting undue attention.

  
Of course some of the entourage became highly interested, thinking second cook had caught the eye of their darling Dimash at last and was queening it while she could, so some evenings on the way to the fashionable haunts of the celebrities were tense. Dimash did not directly acknowledge her the first night she was polished and gowned in her new designer duds, but managed a sotto voce comment as she leaned in the car door to verify the small motorcade was ready to leave the elegant hotel.: ”…Just how did you manage to make that _kulturny_ dress look like it belongs on a _nochnaja babochka_?” 

Crystal flushed as she realized her low cut dress did display her décolleté at his eye level.

“Your battery is loose.” He idly observed. To anyone else it appeared he was courteously re-affixing the battery pack on her dress, but his knuckle gently rasped the fabric, leaving with a slow glide leaving the owner no doubt he was appreciative of the curves in his sight. _You're not used to being looked at like a woman, are you? You're used to something else. But what that exactly is remains a mystery._

Bodyguard-slash-flustered woman stared at the handsome star with an interesting look on her face until said star hit the window button leaving Crystal to shake her hands off the rising window before they were caught like a schoolgirl looking like an adoring puppy at the window.   
He was not in the least contrite and laughed to himself for several minutes, and almost laughed out loud as Vasiliy reported a catfight erupting in the 3rd car of their little motorcade; Irina was drunk and Crystal was the driver. 

  
Crystal was driving the car with Irina and 4 others from the chorus. They had just turned onto a roadway, and she received a communique from the lead car in the front of the cavalcade, in Korean. She smoothly replied in the same, apparently reporting position, speed, who was in nearby lanes; it took a few minutes before it dawned on the passengers she had increased speed to chase scene level as the entire motorcade had split up and all four cars were dodging a grey SUV with tinted windows, and she was dialoging in a steady stream to the lead car.

  
A siren announced a police car catching up, then with their noses glued to the glass, the singers saw the police intervene and take the SUV out of action; Crystal pulled over to the slow lane to convene with the other cars in their motorcade, inserted herself back in her slot, ending the nonsensical dialogue with a slightly warmer tone and a _gamsahaminida, arrasogeumsunida…oppa._

  
“What’s that?” Irina snorted – Channing, the lead tenor gave a sly grin and blandly commented, “ehh…oppa…sounds like she called him daddy. Did Dimi-dear tell you to call him daddy? ” Crystal arched an eyebrow, but kept silent. Channing fanned the flames of jealousy and taunted Irina:' Iri-dear has no morals and still wasn't able to land a star spot. Maybe you've got a talent." Irina was in a mood and shot back: “At least I’m not shagging my employer and calling him daddy to keep MY job! I. HAVE.TALENT.” 

The change in Crystal’s face was what she’d hoped for, a direct hit on her damned attitude. What she didn’t expect was the look in her eyes as she slowly spoke into her mike: “Did you hear that, Mr. Kim?" In clear Russian. It was not anger, not ice. Just pity. 

  
It took a few moments for the surly soprano to realize she’d not spoken in Korean, and with a sinking feeling she watched her driver pull the car out of convoy line, onto the shoulder of the highway, behind another car. She quickly exited the vehicle with the keys, handing them to the Oppa Mr. Kim himself and pulled off with the other SUV. Mr. Kim took over the driving of their car with a pleasantly neutral expression as he cracked jokes about Russian women in Korean to his other two drivers. 

  
In the meantime, Crystal was now a captive to Dimash for the duration of the drive back to the mansion. They drove on in silence for several minutes until they ramped onto a highway, guaranteeing a less eventful drive for the next thirty minutes. She was mortified that the chorus thought she was involved with her employer and now embarrassed, she tried to subtly move to smooth her dress down her legs and began to search for the pashmina she’d thrown in on the passenger seat to cover up the exposed cleavage.

  
“No. Don’t. Do not cover up. Let me enjoy your beauty in this moment.” Never had a command sounded more like a humble request to her ears. 

  
A soft piece of music came over the satellite radio, 'Mashallah' from the Bollywood film Saawariya. She sighed and let her anger drop with the pashmina, driving onward in silence. Dimash let himself be carried away with the music, humming a bar or two as a lovely counterpoint in a mellow altino, as if he and she were part of the film, but floating down a river of concrete and street lights instead of a lovely canal. 

  
“Better?” He inquired after the music switched tracks. “I seldom get quiet moments before a tour starts. Everyone is keyed up. Once we pass opening night, it all falls into a rhythm. All fights and bitchery is forgotten once we have success. Irina will apologize. You handled it well." Crystal stayed silent but her air softened considerably. He continued:"I wonder who you were bodyguard for. Perhaps one day you will tell me. Not many handle the car and the chirping birds well. Vasiliy punched the lead tenor on my first tour, so the fact you did not strike Irina or Channing tells me you are more experienced than Vasiliy at being under pressure. ”

  
Dimash knew he’d scored a direct hit as she sat too still at wheel. He softly asked: “Were you his lover? The one you were bodyguard to?”

  
“I'd Never. The relationship was...professional.” Crystal quietly confessed. 

  
Dimash did not pursue any further conversation, but leaned forward and teased the pashmina from the passenger seat; he gently lifted her hair and drew the scarf over her shoulders, sliding his hands down her arms, only separated by a whisper of fabric and drew the fabric over in a demure drape, concluding the act of intimacy with a sharp little stab in her ear this time. “Well. There’s always a first time.”

  
The car rolled to a stop in the secured portico of the house, and Crystal’s mouth dropped. 

“Do you have any idea what your attention has done to me here? Men are making jokes, I’ve got women bitching and throwing food on at me, and all because they think I’m in your bed! This might be no matter to you, but its hell for me!”  
He smiled with utmost charm, shrugged with mock-helplessness and said: “That is a tour, my dear!” before making his escape, leaving Crystal to let the fact sink in that she was now neatly trapped.


	8. Chapter Eight

The spring days were about done when the two weeks of dress rehearsals started; the ads and radio announcements had been in play for months and the pre-show sneak previews and teasers were scheduled with select media. Curiosity abated somewhat around the star and the second cook-turned-bodyguard; the entourage’s days were now filled with finishing touches to performance numbers, costume alterations, and the endless shuffle of stage scenery. 

Tea was frequently served now; Alpamys scheduled pre-tour photo shoots and interviews to generate interest in the tour, and the security teams were called out at all hours to escort the key performers. The endless cups were comforting, and Crystal could be counted on to add a sandwich or some delightful snack to keep the stomachs of the security team filled. Some of the sharper members of the security team discussed her as they started to notice things about the second cook-aka-bodyguard were not quite fitting the simple profile Vasiliy and Alpamys gave out. It was very un-American to speak English, and Korean AND Russian; she seemed far too comfortable with knives and during a rather contentious meeting she ruffled the feathers of the security team by insisting on changes to the procedures, tightening it with a precision that some felt was overkill, until a small incident at the concert hall. Thanks to the interfaces that Crystal had the team built between the security video system and their smartphones, infiltrators bent on stealing expensive sound equipment were ousted and a loss prevented. So they were far less hostile and shrugged off any of Dimash’s demands for Crystal . _Let the man have his fancy,_ they thought. _She can be trusted with him._

  
The star exhibited no lover-like behavior or preferences, except for her presence near him. He leaned on her hard, demanding more and more of her personal time and at all hours; if she wasn’t circling the table pouring tea for Dimash as he charmed the TV hosts and news people, she was trotting at a near run behind Vasiliy’s elbow in her walkable high heels, part of the group that surrounded the star rapidly walking down the long corridors of buildings. Tonight he was in a hurry to prepare for a sneak preview for select movers and shakers in London and an exclusive television interview at the concert hall; exhilaration infused the team as they managed to get the star to the interview room without undue delay. The routing Crystal had mapped out avoided curiosity-seekers, paparazzi and a Dimash Dears fan club from Soho, which would have delayed the interview and annoyed the attendees for the sneak preview. So they were happy to get the small event off to a good start and hoped the reviews would go up a notch. 

  
The interview and sneak preview of 3 pieces was scorchingly good; it would make the evening news and create the excitement the tour deserved. Alpamys had made reservations at a restaurant and a fancy disco club for the main entourage to let them blow off some tension before the tour started. The location was a secret, as he didn’t want the performers and crew to be nervous when relaxing after a hard 14 weeks of rehearsals. The tour must have positive reviews, perception was everything.

  
However, someone did say something while trying on a new outfit for the evening, which a fitting room assistant overheard. The assistant then gaily chattered to a friend to convince them to go out and see the celebrities, which a less savory employee overheard, who quickly made a healthy tip from a particular paparazzi, whom eagerly prepared for an evening of capturing the forbidden private world of Dimash Kudiabergen and his tour. 

  
Crystal had been assigned to help drive people to the club and back. Mr. Kim and Vasiliy were careful to pair her with people whom were not influenced by the tour gossipmongers, so it was a fairly peaceful evening for her; the makeup artists had waved her into a chair cheerfully and made her up into a worthy attendee of Heaven’s dance floors, so she didn’t look much like a bodyguard in a jewel-toned velvet men’s suit, smoky eyes with a startling flamingo lip. As she ferried carloads over two and half hours, she caught a little of the pre-tour excitement as the passengers gaily broke in to singing and animated talk, all dressed in their best clubbing clothes and ready to explode on the scene of London tonight. They were sophisticated, worldly, and winners tonight. She began to think she’d actually been a little too sensitive to the attention, it was bearable, and she simply laughed off any thought that an international celebrity would seriously be into her, if asked.

  
About 1:35 AM, a rather tired Dimash stepped outside the private 2nd floor which had been reserved for the entourage; he just wanted to take a breath of air and went to the main floor to retrieve his coat and go outside, preferably through the back door and avoid any late night partiers who were too drunk .   
He caught a glimpse of an ordinarily dressed man in the mirror by the coat room, and with a stab of unease, he caught the tense way the man moved, the too-non-descript outfit and the way he kept his head down. Paparazzi. He asked with his eyes that the coat check girl help him but she had turned to another guest already. Dimash kept his back to the man and made a split second decision to run into the crowd on the main floor of the club and hide there, moving to the back or security , whichever came first. He slipped and dodged and moved as fast as he could without running into the dark club, pushing his way through the sweating crowd, bumped by elbows, flying hair, arms and random clothing bits, bringing him to a state of panic. Panting, he made it to the back door, and ran down the employees hallway, exiting into the parking garage. He heard a door slam behind him and he forced himself to run again, brushing against the parked cars and ducking when his damned tall body stood above the car roofs.

  
He found elevators, but they were too slow and in desperation, he hit the buttons and took the stairs, closing the door as quietly as he could. He remembered he had his cell in his pocket, and thumbed Mr. Kim's number and then Vasiliy. Vasiliy picked up and he quietly and rapidly filled him in; Vasiliy confidently took charge, sent all security and drivers an alert, and could be heard running through the club to find Dimash or the paparazzi and stop him from ruining the evening. He directed Dimash to keep moving, but make his way to employees parking area on the basement level and get to the door back into the club. Dimash was crushed when he saw not one but several other paparazzi hanging by the employee entrance and texted Vasiliy. He was beginning to feel trapped. Vasiliy told his people to act as if it was a break, walk versus run out, and directed Dimash to go back to the1st level and make for the parking attendants booth, which had club security. They would send a car over with their best. He quickly sent four to comb the club, and two to the manager’s office to get video of the coat check area for a visual. 

  
Dimash was relieved to see only the uniformed attendant and no cars checking in or out; he walked forward confidently, sure of his goal. The next thing he knew was that he was tumbling to the concrete floor, a knee painfully hitting first, followed by scraped palms and elbows to avoid a face plant and a broken nose, or worse, mouth. A splash of something wet his back and hair, and the smell of vodka was followed with a careless crash of a glass bottle hitting pavement. A pair of underwear was thrown down to set the scene. It was his worst nightmare, he was being set up. Enraged, he heard the rapid-fire of a camera shutter on auto and almost cursed out loud. A car drove up and headlights illuminated the downed celebrity and the paparazzi, his shaved head and hat making him anonymous. Dimash struggled to his feet to escape, but stopped dead as the car door opened and a figure broke into a sprint, then launched itself into a flying kick into the stranger. The attacker was brutally efficient, now clearly in the spotlight of two more cars that had screeched up to the booth. Dimash was dimly aware of car doors slamming and people moving towards him, but all he could see was second cook Crystal beating the crap out of the paparazzi with the precision of a Russian KGB agent, and savagely ensuring his damned nosy camera and nasty foot wouldn’t work so well for a long time. 

  
It wasn’t until he was standing under a cascade of hot water in his suite that he also remembered her war-queen’s face enjoying the punishment she was meting out and how he’d risen in total excitement at the sight under his fashionable black jeans, spilling his seed in a gloriously fierce explosion as he let himself be half carried away to the waiting car by Vasiliy’s strong arms. _I’m attracted and she doesn’t understand why. There lies a beast in every man and it stirs when you put a sword in his hand. She is a sword and a sharp one, at that. I arouse because I feel like I could break the barrier between body and spirit if I have her. God. Give her to me. I care not if it is just one time or many._

  
All in all, the evening’s celebration wasn’t a total disaster for the entourage. They all were aghast at the incident with the offensive paparazzi, yet gratified it wasn’t them caught in the camera, and quite upset for their celebrity’s safety. They considered him quite clever and brave to not panic like they would have and had put up with a lot, so they treated him tenderly. Second cook had a sudden change in status; the gossip took a far different tone, she was now considered legitimately one of them, since she put Dimash’s well-being above her own. They wheedled Mr. Kim and Vasiliy about her fighting skills until they admitted she had been a bodyguard and in the USA military. They wisely nodded and connected that fact with the frequent glimpses of her with their star, now thinking she had been there to secretly protect him; in fact it was damned clever of the conspirators to conceal the truth. 

  
The workday rehearsal settled back into its regular routine, except there was no bitchery between anyone; the team spirit carried over into the dinner and leaving their fearless star and each other with genuinely affectionate adieus. Second cook Crystal came in at 8:30 vs. 7, as she had to meet with the attorneys and craft her legal statement, so only the head cook Sean was closing up the kitchen. He had kindly ensured it had been cleaned for Crystal; he’d been a brawler in his youth, and knew her hands would have some bruises and scrapes. He’d had his share of painful memories after plunging raw knuckles into soapy water in the kitchen sink. She took up her usual post in the closet-bedroom after sweeping the floors and checking the refrigerator, spending a couple of hours idly thumbing through blogs. A little after midnight, a shadow fell across her as she was lying there on the futon, soothing meditation music pouring through her earbuds. She almost jumped, looking at her cell for a nonexistent missed text, then was rather astonished to see a familiar thin figure with damp black hair flopping over the ebony brows marked with such decision on the Kazakh face. She played it cool, and said simply said: “Hello. Why didn’t you send a text with your order? Do you want tea?” 

  
He just as simply sat down, and silently grasped a wrist, pulling the hand closer to examine its bruises and scrapes, a whisper of last night’s arousal teasing his body. He spoke lightly: “ I find my…eyes…were hungry for the sight of you again today.” The lean fingers pulled her hand closer with unexpected strength, and he held it captive before briefly dropping his lips to the purple knuckles, eyes unfathomable dark depths. She felt the smooth curves of his mouth tremble before he pulled away and spoke again. “Forgive me. I am swaddled and protected so much it is like a prison sometimes. Especially after times like last night.”

  
“It was a moment for sure...Dimash.” she spoke his name for the first time to his face shyly. “ It really pissed me off to see he tripped you. I guess being a celebrity is a burden sometimes. Like last night.”

  
“The burden is the responsibility. I am responsible for the times when people get trampled just to see me sing. I am responsible when someone jumps off a bridge because they listened to my song and could not bear their life. I am responsible when a woman I employ breaks her knuckles beating a lousy paparazzi down, because if I even raise a finger, my life, my reputation is gone. Just like that. All because I dared to behave as human instead of a symbol. Sometimes I hate my prison. I cannot be the man I am inside, my soul cannot fly free.” 

  
Crystal absorbed this in silence; she hadn’t thought he could be unhappy in the position he was in; to her, it seemed like he had it all in a way – young, talented, wealthy and adored by everyone. But she saw it with new eyes upon hearing the cracked note of despair underlying the soft cat’s paw voice in the dark. 

  
“ You know what I really felt when I saw you kicking the crap out that ass?” he grabbed her hand and ungently led it to him, pressing lips against the palm in a seductive kiss, pulling the captured hand down, down the golden throat, the V of the exposed chest and further down below the belt line to rest against a burning heat throbbing in time with his hammering heart. “That. I don’ t understand, but I don’t question when god sends me what I pray for every night.”

Crystal’s face was sharp and intense, her mouth dry and she swallowed before she asked the million dollar question in a whisper: ”What does Dimash pray for?”

“Freedom” was the whispered retort.

And before she knew it, she was alone again, her heart now throbbing with a new and unknown fear that was exciting, or perhaps an excitement that she feared. 


	9. Chapter Nine

The last week before the opening date of the tour was going fast, and Crystal felt curiously adrift as her kitchen shifts were replaced by more and more security work; she saw more of key players behind the tour and less of the entourage and it was frequently past dusk when she finished her work for Mr. Kim or Vasiliy. Downloads of hotels and concert halls floor plans were studied with intensity, routes were mapped and practice plans were added to the tour project manager’s calendars. Dimash was not to be seen except once or twice, exiting or entering his car to a barrage of interviews and promotional work with various performers. 

  
Dimash was not oblivious, and asked Mr. Kim how Crystal was doing daily. The expertise in violence the woman had shown piqued his curiosity even further and he decided to find out for himself after he’d so nicely asked Mr. Kim and Vasiliy what they knew. They had shaken their heads and said they’d not seen her resume or files, only Alpamys and the attorneys had them. They were wary of crossing Alpamys, so they kept their tongues in between their teeth and advised Dimash to do the same. There was a saying in England about not looking a gift horse in the mouth, why worry over such a gift like Miss Crystal? That afternoon, the star casually strolled into Alpamys empty office, shuffled paper as a cleaning lady walked by, then shut and locked door before sitting down and opening the laptop neatly placed on the broad wooden desk. He knew Alpamys wouldn’t change passwords unless he had to, so it was fairly easy to login. He began to hunt through folders and a long 16 minutes passed before he hit on the employment reference letter and Alpamys personal profile sheets he kept on every tour member. He opened the profile sheet and with a deep breath, dove into the portrait of a cook-turned-bodyguard for another 7 minutes.

  
After he finished the document, he sat back heavily, the jeweled eyes unfocused as facts hit him… _..Sergeant-at-arms, US Marines…twice decorated…purple heart, us navy & marine corps medals...Incirlik, Afghanistan, Itaewon…Kings College…interned at VA hospital in Virginia…what on earth is this bright person doing in my kitchen? Why the hell would Alpamys hire such a jewel and lie to me for months? That bastard! Who does he think he is? _

He immediately regretted his harsh thoughts, his friend had never done anything but help him take the road to stardom in a good way and had protected him like a father. Alpamys must have had a reason, he just didn’t know it yet. His anger drained away and curiosity set in; he went back to the laptop and opened her resume; he whistled soundlessly at the respectable list of political and public figures that appeared, ending with a world-famous rock band, Stormrider. The name scratched at his memory, aligning itself into a list of famous musicians he knew were dead. The lead singer, Adam Joseph Storm, AJ to his fans, had died in a nightclub on new year’s eve four years ago. The L.A. club had caught on fire; people panicked, blocking exits in a mad stampede; AJ and Squeeze, the drummer manfully did not run and pushed people out a kitchen window until the roof fell, trapping the remaining victims. The idle scratch of memory’s claw now dug in; he knew it was something important if he could only remember what else the damned news captured about AJ. 

  
His eyes flicked to the door reassuring him it was still locked as he busied himself with searching on the internet for Stormrider articles. It was buried, being over four years old; he read through the exclusive interview, scanning through the trite inquiries until he found the paragraph: _...So, I hear your sister is on the tour with you- is she a musician also? Will the Stormrider lineup change? – Ahhh, you’re too funny, dude! She can’t carry a tune to save her life – actually she’s our tiger mama for this tour. We’re big enough to need a security crew, and well, she’s the best I know._

Another article, dated January 3rd: _“New developments in the Club Babylon fire that tragically took the lives of 92 people, including 2 members of the band Stormrider. The fire department concluded the building was over occupancy after gathering survivor’s testimonies and video footage outside the club; the tour manager testified security was alerted and was monitoring the situation while he was negotiating with the club manager over the phone when the fire broke out; other sources report the tour security guards started throwing people out before the fire and saw a security person assaulting the manager. <Video clip: yeah, it was allah crazy by the office, da chick kicked in the door and then three tour corpses started draggin’s people out and yellin’ to stay out, she was slappin’ the crap outta some guy and yelling, then I looked to the left when some gal screamed and saw smoke, then I just ran for the door!> It has been confirmed AJ Storm and Samuel ‘Squeeze’ Marshall died from smoke inhalation. AJ is survived by his sister Crystal Storm, who is listed in critical condition from smoke inhalation. Stormrider’s management has declined to make a statement regarding AJ Storm, citing Miss Storm will make her own statement when the time is right and has asked fans to donate to the gofundme page for the victims. The fire department will work with legal authorities to file for the appropriate charges.”_

A faint noise brought him back to the office and he quickly turned off Alpamy’s laptop and left. When he shut the door to his suite that night, he restlessly roamed the rooms; he wanted to do something, anything, to talk with this person, this woman. She’d been through what he feared most, and survived. How could he tell her? He felt certain God had directed her footsteps to him to help him. All he had to do was find a way to receive what God gifted him with. He sighed, reached for a glass of water and sipped the tasteless liquid. Childlike, he longed for something sweet, and there it was, the way to Crystal Storm, second cook and bodyguard: a cup of tea. 

  
A little nervous, he sent a text: _Are you awake? I’d like a cup of tea._  
C: _Yes. I will prepare tea. When will you come to the kitchen?_  
D: _Bring it to my suite. I am exhausted._

  
15 minutes later, a quiet knock was heard on his door. He silently jerked his head to the interior after opening the door cautiously. She never heard the lock click as he closed the door; he wasn’t about let anyone interrupt this conversation. He bade her to sit with him and surprised her by pouring her a cup, instead of being served. “You are my guest for a little while, so be comfortable.” They sipped their cups for long minutes, Crystal breaking the silence first: “So…what’s on your mind?”

“Why do you never say my name? Everyone else does…is 'Dimash' hard to say for your American mouth?” 

  
“I’m not everybody. And Dimash is your professional name. I don’t know what your real name is. I admit Kudaibergen is little difficult, but calling you Mr. Kudiabergen doesn’t seem right, either. What do you suggest I call you?”

  
“ _Lyubovnik_.” He dared not say the Kazakh word for lover. Freedom was at stake. He wanted no misunderstandings between them from this point on.

  
Crystal caught her breath as the meaning sank in and an abyss opened up. She’d only crossed the line of professional to personal only once, and it cost her dearly. Ninety two lives were on her soul.

  
Dimash saw the fear cloud her eyes and he gave it all he had; he took her hands and sank to his knees steadily capturing her gaze with his own as he pitched his melodic voice to carry her past the fear and memories: ”I beg of you, stay a little while, free me from my fear, protect me so what happened to your beautiful brother, your AJ, does not happen to me. Please, Crystal Storm. Stay.” 

  
He slowly drew her down to his level on the floor, eyes touching her everywhere as he tried to silently communicate _Yes, I know who you are at last…free me from this prison I’ve made for myself, you’re the only one I trust to help me…_ She was falling into his eyes and shut her own, gently disengaging her hands and rising to her feet to put distance between herself and the person who was cracking her carefully built defenses. Of all the arguments she'd experienced to get her to step over the line between professional and personal in her career she never had expected this. She drifted to the window and let herself ask one small question: ”How do you know I -...?” she stumbled to a stop, unable to say Adam’s name past the tight knot in her throat. The lean form drew close, a hand fell on her shoulder like a falling leaf, and she squeezed her eyes shut repeating to herself _don’t trust it, don’t trust it, don’t cross that line again, it hurts too much…_ until the softest, tenderest voice drowned out her self-dialogue with: “The choice is yours. But I think _Inshallah_ , God has willed it…I am a prisoner of a future I want to escape, and you are a knight imprisoned by a past she cannot escape. Perhaps we can free each other. Remove the thorns from our sides until we breathe free. Wouldn’t you like to be free?” 

Crystal said nothing more, but ever so slowly she let down her defenses, letting her body slowly relax against the lean figure and just as slowly, his head bent until silky locks of hair intertwined and slim arms held her, then two pairs of eyes allowed themselves to fill and spill over long held-back tears.

And there they stood, sable on blonde, as the moon sailed across the sky, two people stepping on their journey together instead of separately into the future. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics to 'the power of love' are owned by the 80's icon Frankie Goes To Hollywood; Muse suggested the version by Within Temptation, but a version made in 2014 by a group of Dutch Metal had an incredible set of vocalists that provided some inspiration also. I'm fairly sure its in a key that Dimash can handle. ; )

After the late night tea talk and tears, Dimash quietly walked Crystal back to her improvised office and mildly commented: ”This will no longer do. “ He turned to go and paused in the hallway before leaving a small offering: ”Your brother was brilliant. But then, so are you. I wish to see you daily. _Qayırlı tün_.” The last was said with an intimate caress in his voice and she gently echoed it, trying the Kazakh words on her tongue instead of the usual schoolroom Russian. 

  
The next day, she was informed by the major-domo to see Alpamys, and he welcomed her as always and quietly, quickly told her he and Vasiliy agreed with Dimash that she should move to the security team full time; he did not say it outright but she had the distinct sense he was aware a shift in his protégé ‘s attitude had had happened and he was in favor of the changes. She nodded in assent and he sent her a schedule to her smartphone, then slid a key to a room on the third floor and reminded her the tour kicked off at the Royal Albert in 2 days. “Make your calls now to your friends, the first two weeks are nothing but organized chaos. It’s a miracle we even raise the curtain.”

  
The schedule had her on early morning routines with the star, which appeared to be mostly related to exercise, then executing duties on the floor on performance nights and assisting with driving everybody to and from airports and train stations. Security met daily at 10 AM, and there were rotating days off every two weeks to handle mundane items like haircuts and banking. 

  
Alpamys forecast proved true; she felt like she barely had time to say her goodbyes, grab her passport and before she knew it, opening night was happening. Dimash had her run with him in the early mornings, and he began to open up and tell her about his daily conversations and decisions and sometimes just how he felt. She never criticized his choices or how he said something; sometimes she didn’t understand him fully, especially when he spoke too rapidly in Russian or lapsed into Kazakh. But when she did understand, she would calmly ask him what he expected from that person or action, and gave him coaching tips on how lead the interview in the direction he wanted, or some other technique to encourage assertiveness instead of relying on his defence of Mr. Too-Nice. “When used at the right moment, a moment of grace for your opponent can be devastating as an outright insult; but perhaps if you had some more verbal skills in your arsenal, you might not have to wear the mask of an angel so much, and relax…and when you relax, you know what happens, yes?”

  
“I am 100% genuine Dimash and *I* have the power!” He replied and struck his favorite stage pose. Crystal gave him a sidelong look with a glint of grey-green that seemed almost like a smile. He looked down and felt a glow of positivity ignite as they continued the morning run and somehow he was carrying that aura over into his day, which gave him a few more molecules of assertiveness. And so it grew, day by day in the dried up well of Dimash’s mind.  
The tour proceeded at a frantic pace, and everyone did their best to keep up with the travel schedule and onslaught of media trying to break into the tour’s circle and get the gossip. The security team had their hands full, but thanks to Mr. Kim’s good planning and daily sessions, they were growing together into a crack team, and the tour proceeded without any major mishaps. 

  
Life on the road was familiar to Crystal, and she recalled with a bittersweet ache in her heart memories of AJ, Squeeze, and other ghosts in the same places Stormrider had performed in; she could almost hear AJ’s laughter echoing down the corridors to the stage, the vocal warm-up exercises in the cramped dressing rooms, far different from the current star’s warm-ups, which she mentally termed a zoo from all the cat-yowling mixed with whale singing and other strange exercises to loosen vocal cords. 

  
One night, Crystal received a text to come to the green room; it was well after the end of the show, the great hall empty of fans and echoing with the sound of the tech crews disassembling the stage. She found Dimash standing alone looking at the back wall, which was covered in signatures from the famous performers in a marvelous confetti. He turned, his face uncertain; Crystal drew breath to ask what was wrong, and then she saw it.

  
AJ’s bold flourishing hand had written Stormrider, with the words ‘Always believe in the power of love and music’ below it; Crystal slowly reached out and stroked the wall, and swallowed back the sudden tears rising to her eyes. A distant bang on the stage made her jump and snatch her hand away, but Dimash led her hand back to the wall. “We Kazakhs say time engraves on our face the tears we do not shed. He wrote this to be remembered. So remember.” The bodyguard stood silent, softly gasping as memories welled up for a long moment.

  
The singer remembered too; a breath of a refrain he’d heard hundreds of times escaped his lips:

The power of love, A force from above  
Cleaning my soul - Flame on burn desire  
Love with tongues of fire, Purge the soul  
Make love your goal

  
“What beautiful lyrics. He wrote them for you, didn’t he?”

  
“Yes. I…I still have them.” Crystal softly confessed. Her face transformed momentarily as she recalled the golden afternoon where AJ nervously tried the lyrics out on the guys and the fire that caught and passed from face to face like a holy rapture. She had not listened to any Stormrider music since that terrible night, fearing a full breakdown, but somehow, hearing it now it didn’t seem like a trauma, but…comforting. 

  
Dimash had taken the time to text a photo of AJ’s signature line before bed and was rewarded with a glimmer of trust in Crystal’s eyes she had not expressed before with him during their morning runs. They were uncharacteristically quiet, but it was a companionable silence and as they were doing the after-run stretches, Dimash idly asked: “Do you have the masters to Power Of Love?” 

  
“Yeah. I own the whole catalogue. Inherited it all. Don’t tell. Nearly everybody in the business has tried to get me to sell it off to them.”

  
“Actually, I‘d like to listen to it. It’s iconic. Like Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon.”

  
“Since when does an opera star know rock? I thought you were all Pavarotti and Petrov.”

  
The man rolled his eyes in mock surprise and retorted with a distinct note of sarcasm: “Oh. A _vanka_ bodyguard knows opera. I am shocked.”

  
“Oh, I’ll show you some _vanka_. Who’s the lead singer for Pink Floyd? Ah! Gotcha! ” She gestured ebulliently, shaking a finger in triumph, but this time, the slim Kazakh grabbed her hand and she felt her legs kicked out from under her in Russian military style as he rolled, landing on top of her with a solid thump that knocked the breath out her. The warmth of his body blended with the warm summer sun and grass into a sensual glissando that made her pause longer than she intended to; he simply looked at her, his own breath coming quicker as they measured each other up and shyly retreated.

  
_Hmmm. You’re getting bolder. Almost ballsy today. Yup, we’re headed to a showdown soon. Get ready, Crystal-girl._

  
Dimash encouraged the woman to look for any Stormrider graffiti and text him a photo on the various tour stops, urging her to talk about her memories, even if he had to use a translator app to get her American slang. They spent time chatting on text late night or talking while she drove him to the airport in the dawn. It eventually became bearable for Crystal to say AJ’s name, speak of the recording sessions, the fun they had on the tours, which were a far different kind of production than what Dimash had known. 

He listened to the catalogue of Stormrider music during train rides and flights, since Crystal had not allowed him to listen to the masters. He knew it was just a matter of time, so he felt it was time well spent getting familiar with the music. It said much about the man who wrote it; it was surprisingly affirmative, the lyrics uplifting, not heavy or dystopian. He began to imagine the title track to Power Of Love reworked into an orchestral piece, but with a flair of modern, an exciting wall of sound that would resonate through the entire concert hall with the strength of a rock anthem, but overlaid with a heavenly choir, clear and powerful voices that would make the hair raise on the neck and angels weep. He definitely thought the electric guitars and modern drum kits would stay, but snobbishly cut out synthesized keyboards. He was quite spoiled by Wu’s deft touch on the keys. After about 10 days of immersion into Stormrider music, he began to plan his first jailbreak attempt from his prison and called a meeting with Wu. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

The tour was going better than expected, and Wu was grateful he wasn’t re-writing arrangements until 4 in the morning, so he decided to celebrate with a particularly delicious meal of truffled mille-feuille of beef filet and heirloom potatoes at a little French bistro with fabulous reviews on TripAdvisor; he almost sighed when he saw Dimash’s text and thought to himself he’d celebrated too soon. He adored the star, they got on well together musically; he just wished they’d write something just for his voice; it seemed a bit of a shame that the young man was headed to the classics and re-arrangements of pop, which seemed to be the recipe for success for an operatic voice these days. They were lucrative and safe, since everyone liked the classics, but Wu thought Dimash could step outside the box, if he just had the courage. Talent like his came along so seldom.

  
After he finished his entrée and had his peach tart boxed to go, he made his way back to the hotel, idling on the sidewalk as if the meeting was being thought of with a genteel sense of trepidation instead of eagerness. Dimash was pacing outside the hotel entrance, which did not bode well for the pianist; he’d lived through 3 star vocalist’s tours before contracting with the Kazakh singer ‘s management, and felt he could predict meltdowns and tantrums with accuracy. He was about to put on his happy face and act as if he hadn’t heard the news that the performance in Milan, their next stop, wasn’t sold out yet. 

However, he was quite surprised when Dimash led him into a meeting room, sat him down and asked his opinion about the direction his music should take; it was almost thrilling to hear him echo what Wu had thought over lunch: “Look, you’ve been through more than one tour, and it seems like we classically trained singers all take the same path – but no one goes beyond rehashing opera and musicals. I want my music to cross borders. People should hear music in my country, as it is made with dombra and darbuka. They should hear what musics they make, too. Music that is reimagined, remade into the music of the other side of life. Very few times has classic crossed over to modern music …or back. I can name the albums on both my hands…and how many thousands of albums have been released in the last 50 years? So few.”

  
“That is a big vision, my friend. You would need backing and it’s a tremendous gamble. People like to conform, in a way. But….there has been concern that classic will die out; it seems that some of the movers and shakers have discovered they’ve stopped being so relevant to today’s society, especially young people. Somebody actually studies trends in music sales, and listens to opinions. Some Russian and American producers have been using that to market new artists that are not so common. Look at how American country and western music has grown into a giant. Look at Vitas in Russia. 10 years ago he would have been kicked to the curb as a freak and not celebrated for the unique talent he is. However, no one has quite crossed over in classic since the 70’s …it was rife with British Rockers – The Who’s rock opera Tommy, Queen, Pink Floyd, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Yes, Camel…”

  
Dimash softly interjected as Wu paused: “Yes. It was the era for Rock to cross over to world of classic. But I am talking about music that could translate from electronic to orchestral and still excite the young people. Maybe it’s time for classic to be the rock stars? “

  
Wu could not help but smile at the beautiful young man so earnestly trying to sell him on an idea and tried to ground him a little: ”Look, my friend….Look at a guy like me. I’m not the handsome fellow, I dye my hair so no one sees the gray and I eat too much. I have to let the piano speak for me. Everyone loves it, but they don’t love…me. You are lucky. You have it in you to inspire a great love, and you attract the finest beauties in the world, because you are young and handsome and seem innocent, not cynical. Everyone loves you, Dimash. But I have to ask: What are you looking for? Are you going to believe the story this imperfect world wants us to? Not everything comes to us in a perfect manner. God sends us imperfect things. So how can I, a middle-aged Chinese guy enthrall a 16 year old? It’d take a young person, like them. And a music that speaks to the young, not to guys like me who remember Caruso and make up eighty percent of the classic musicians out there.”

  
“So what? I have 80 year old grandmothers buying my tickets. Wu, I’m not asking you to carry the torch here. I’m saying…*I* want to. And I need your help.”  
“If you want to walk through that door, then something must be speaking to you. Remember Rumi? ‘What you seek is also seeking you’? You need the right music. That’s going to be the hard part. Not much popular translates to classic.”

  
Dimash silently slid a USB drive over the smooth surface of the table. His dark eyes glimmered with intensity as he gently suggested: “Try this.”  
Wu quickly fiddled with his cell, adapter and blueooth headset and sat back to listen. Six minutes in, he stopped the player and spoke in a thoughtful voice: ”Interesting. Getting permission to the catalogue could cost you a pretty penny, or tie your plans up for years, then it’d be no longer young people’s music. Or someone could swipe the idea and leave you a middle aged man, who eats too much and dyes his hair.” 

  
“We’ll see about that.” Dimash stood up to leave; a few hours later Wu was surprised to see a teleconference meeting for tomorrow with Alpamys and the legal team. He humorously quipped to himself as he straightened his tie before he stepped into the car to be whisked to the concert hall: _I_ _guess the comment about dyeing his hair scared the hell out of him._

  
After that night’s performance, Dimash charmed Mr. Kim into changing his driver _della noche_ to Crystal; during the ride back to the hotel, he carefully introduced his idea to her. He didn’t speak a word of his grand plan and vision, but gave her a very small piece of the scope. He knew she’d balk if he were like the others, stomping in with a demand for an entire catalogue of music. He got the fact that to her, it was a collection of memories, the only thing she had left of a life cut short. 

  
“I cannot get the Power Of Love out of my mind. Can I sing it for you one day? I am not AJ, but I think I can do justice to his memory. “

  
“Eh? The opera star wants to try the rocker life? You have gotta be crazy! You sure your ears can take the noise? It's loud!”

  
He smiled a bit lazily, a secret sparkle illuminating his face before replying: “I guess I’m an envoy. I promise I won’t wear spandex. And I already have groupies.”

  
“Uh-huh. Just stay away from the weird groupies. And drugs. And the vodka.”

  
“Is that a blessing from the guardian?” He playfully countered.

  
“Are you serious? You want to try singing a rock ballad?” He nodded, his face hopeful.

  
“Ok. Go ahead. Give it a shot; if it doesn’t suck then we’ll talk about the legal side. If you try anything stupid, you’ll be talking to the Goldberg group. And you know that name.” 

  
Dimash swallowed rather audibly at the mention of the biggest legal firm representing the best in music copyright law, but had the sense to pull a rose from the bouquets piled beside him in the car seat and offer it with an intimate _ulken rahkmet_ ; he skipped any after-parties that night to prepare his escape plans. He was gaining confidence that it could happen. He’d been assertive. He didn’t behave like the totally agreeable puppet he started as, and he was still standing. Escape was imminent.


	12. Chapter Twelve

New York City was a landmark performance and everyone in the entourage was a little worked up; the reviews could make them or break them, and the paparazzi were a force to be reckoned with. A subset of the singers and musicians had been practicing the arrangement of Stormrider’s ‘Power Of Love’; Dimash leaned on his knowledge and assessment of everyone’s voice, choosing the ones who had the power to carry over the guitars and asked the conductor to point him to only those who expressed an interest in the concept. It was decided they would do it as an encore; if it didn’t fly, then they could let it go.

  
The sound was ferocious, everyone came together beautifully; Irina got her chance to duet with Dimash on a stanza, and lent a brilliant counterpoint to his tenor range; Dimash felt he used his entire range well for the whole piece, and for once, he felt he was singing with them, instead flitting from solo to solo to keep the audience’s attention. The audience ate it up, roaring their approval, singing lyrics and holding up cell phones and lighters in the dark of the great hall.

  
Wu, Alpamys and Dimash all grinned at each other as they waited in the green room, hearing the crowd cheering for long minutes until the house lights finally came on, and it was a good 45 minutes before the backstage cleared enough to allow them to get down the hall to the back entrance where the TV, journalists and paparazzi would be waiting. Someone had switched on the television and eagerly scanning channels to catch any news about the tour; everyone knew what happened was a hit, and wanted their hard work validated. Alpamys sent texts to bring fresh shirts and jackets for Dimash and Wu, when a squeal of dismay and distressed moans erupted by the TV. He pushed his way forward through the crowd of performers, whom were cursing in various languages and beginning to sound ugly; then he heard it, as someone changed channels to another newscast. 

  
“….but still no word from the Garrison records company about the alleged illegal plagiarism of Stormrider’s last hit. We are waiting live at the Geffen Hall where our entertainment maven Diane Krieger will report on this late breaking scandal.” Alpamys grabbed the remote and turned it off, but too late. Dimash’s face was a stern mask and his knuckles were white, gripping the water bottle tightly. WU looked sick and the remaining performers looked and sounded like a riot in the making. He shooed them all out, and nodded when Vasiliy mouthed ‘tea?’ ; a security man was sent on the run to find Crystal, whom was driving the orchestra back to the hotel. 

Crystal arrived in about 15 minutes, on the heels of a caterer bearing tea and a handful of coffee cups. With a breathless aside, she asked Alpamys: “What happened to kill the party? Did someone die?”

“The TV news has been bad. We have been accused of theft. Someone thinks we have stolen the music of Stormrider and are making money illegally. What is strange is no one here would leak something like this. I wonder who would say such things.”

  
Grimly, Crystal replied:”Oh, I can think of a couple of sour grapes. Don’t be surprised if Garrison records is looking for a piece of the tour’s profit. Or the entertainment editor from the New York Times. He was one of the idiots who claimed the boys started the fire at the club.” 

  
“Can you talk to Dimash? He needs to make a statement to the press outside. I could take them apart a piece at a time, but it’s his idea, and he can stop all this before it gets out of control.”

  
Crystal poured a mug of tea, precisely halfway as always, and sighed, stetting her shoulders before she turned to the young man in the red suit, sitting tensely. _Ok, Crystal-girl, this is it. Time to give him the keys to the jail. Let’s hope he opens the door._ She looked down with a wry grin. _Damn, I am going to miss these shoes._

She slowly approached, setting mug down on the table. “ I heard the news. What are you going to say?”

Silence.

She nudged the cup nearer and cooed in a motherly voice that she didn’t feel like in the least: ”Ooh, here, my dear. Have a nice cup and try to forget about it. It ‘s all a mistake, I’m sure.”

  
“No, I don’t want fucking tea.” He hissed, and threw the teacup, spattering everyone with the hot liquid and shattering the cheap ceramic mug. The room went deathly silent, the team eyeing each other anxiously, hesitant to make a move. Crystal’s face was sharp; she caught Alpamys eye, then Mr. Kim’s and silently gave a nod to the door. She gazed at the star steadily, then spoke with a whiplash in her voice that equaled the sentiment of the viper-like throw moments before. 

  
“What do you want? A fucking ass whipping from the Pravda and the New York Times? They’re waiting. Go ahead, you dumbass. Pretend. Pretend it doesn’t matter.”

  
Open mouthed, Dimash stared at her like wild thing, then snarled: “It **matters**.”

“Oh? Then why are you cowering in this room and not in their faces and standing up for Wu? For all those people who believed in you and did what you asked? When will you stop wearing that mask and let yourself speak some truth?”

  
“I can’t! I’ll lose everything! All the people who depend on me, they will lose too! “

  
“Oh the hell they will, Dimash. You just think it’s easier to go about pretending and wearing that mask, then what do you do? You let yourself outside for a stroll on nights like this…and it gets harder and harder every time to come back to the mask. Ever think it’s OK to be angry? You don’t want love. You want an excuse to take off the mask. Well. Here I am. The mask is off and I’m not dead yet or screaming for help, am I?”

The other occupants of the room backed out rapidly and shut the door, leaving the pair alone; with the click of the lock remiscent of the ring of the bell at the start of a fight match.

  
The star, whom was now huffing like a steam engine, jerked a platter of shrimp off the buffet table and threw it, then tried to give Crystal a good knock on the head with the tin platter; she blocked it with a forearm, picked up the vegetable dip and flung it, decorating his custom tailored red silk suit with a lovely abstract; fuming, he tried to land a punch, missing wildly and stumbling into the food table. Handfuls of food, then trays of it, bowls and a bucket of ice were hurled at his opponent; whom neatly avoided most of it, except the ice, which left her gasping.

She backed off to safer distance, looked over at Dimash with a feral eye which he returned openly, until he was ungently kicked into the couch. He grabbed a cushion and attacked, his height an advantage for once, and dealt a series of punishing blows, until she managed to grab a cushion, then the fight turned into a breathless all-out assault on each other, punctuated with yelps, curses and animal sounds of the fiercer kind. They broke apart, and it was Dimash that retreated rapidly, shedding a ruined silk jacket, a little wide-eyed at the damage one woman had done to him in the space of about 3 minutes.

The young man’s head was on fire, and still wanted a piece of her, but settled for throwing the ripped and stained fabric in snide fit: “That cost me 80,000 rubles!”

She kicked off her remaining shoe, picked it up and let a little of her own temper show as she calmly hit him on the head: “Eighty thousand, my ass!”   
Dimash gaped as he realized he’d only lit the fire in her and began a hasty retreat, remembering the paparazzi who’d gotten the crap kicked out of his sorry ass. Undaunted, she followed him about the room, giving him a good stinging slap with every reply he made. Dimash yelped after an ear received a punishing crack and vainly tried to reason with her:

“I’ll sue you!”

“Sue me, my ass!” <whack>

“You’ll never be a body guard again!”

“ _Potselui mou zhopy!_ " <whack>

Dimash circled the buffet table, now keeping a good six feet between them; they stared at each other, winded and gasping for breath. The Kazkah’s head stung and he looked frightful, his clothing stained, he was sweaty, and whatever style his hair had was gone to hell.

“God-damn, you piss me off, _Cuchka derganaya!_ ”

She countered with an unexpected question: “and how does **THAT** feel?”

The air between them changed; something fell from his eyes and there it was finally, the naked face of a young man who’d had a decade of his hard work and his coworkers slandered unjustly and was screaming mad at the petty stupidity of it all. He spat his reply with a deep intensity that spoke of a lifetime spent holding back and biting his tongue to avoid the fight in front of him now.

“Of course I’m ANGRY! Are you happy now? Are you happy to hear me to say I’m so damned angry? Then to hell with it all, I’ll give you all the anger you and the world wants!”

With a primal shriek, he threw his cushion down, broke into wild sobbing and said every horrible curse word he knew until he was hoarsely panting, tears running down his face…but…feeling here. Present. He didn’t feel the invisible cage pressing against his mind and body anymore.

He looked at the face of the woman who had brought him to this point, and was stunned to see the look on her face; it was proud, glowing, like she’d seen a miracle. And then it hit him ; she’d been there all along to help him break his chains…the ones he’d put on himself. She approached him slowly, lifting her hands to his face, but only to wipe away the remaining tears with a gentle touch.

He caught her hands wordlessly, a silent question in his eyes before raising them to his lips in a heartfelt, tender caress. _No one has ever given me such love._ Overwhelmed he caught her close, and she pulled him closer, fiercely burrowing into his lean frame for a long moment, then gently as butterfly, slipped from his embrace and pushed him to the door. 

“Now. Go tell the world you are angry.”


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Crystal stood motionless in the destroyed room for some time, feeling the ebb of the emotional tsunami that she had just experienced. Then she rummaged in what was left of her suit, extracted her cell, sighed at the cracked screen and sent a single word text: _Breakthrough_

  
The door opened and Vasiliy stuck his head in; he whistled at the destroyed room and looked at Crystal with renewed admiration. The soaked woman smelling of seafood and holding a broken shoe was his hero tonight, and he hustled in to help, but couldn’t help but smile at her. She found herself grinning back, a sudden gleam of white teeth like sunlight on spring snow and the pair, now in tune, proceeded down the hallway in a courtly manner, Vasiliy offering his arm like she was a queen, haughtily ignoring the stares and voices bubbling over with curiosity as he guided her to back stage entrance. He doffed his own jacket while she slicked her hair back and disposed of the sopping wet blouse and jacket, draping Vasiliy’s black blazer over her; with a terse nod, she stood at the doors, ready to face the onslaught of media outside. 

  
Vasiliy hit the button and grabbed her close, and three more security converged to shield her as she strode forward to the waiting car and safety. Most of the journalists and photographers didn’t recognize her, so they managed to make their way to the car without much pushback. Her eyes caught a familiar face in passing and she paused before opening the car door to ask Vasiliy: “What was the official statement?”

  
“The tour abided by all legal rules and laws. If a breach occurred, they were not aware of it. Dimi lit some asses on fire tonight over the accusation.”

  
“Let me add some fuel to that fire under someone’s ass. See him?” pointing at a bearded face and merry blue eyes 20 yards distant. ”See if he’s interested in an exclusive.”

  
Vasiliy spoke in his headset and one the security men detached themselves and tugged on the man’s sleeve. He looked at Crystal, frowning, then his eyes widened as he recognized her face, 4 years older. Crystal climbed in the back seat, accepting a bottle of water from the driver; a minute later, Jem Anderson of Vice TV and a lead influencer on the music blog ‘Off Key’ jumped in. 

  
Crystal crisply informed him: “Jem, you know my face and you’ve got 1 minute. Ask away.”

  
“Did the musicians rip your brother’s hit off for themselves?”

  
“Let me answer that with a question of my own. After the fight I had four years ago in probate over the Stormrider catalogue, do you think *I* would let that happen? “

  
“What are you doing here, especially tonight?”

  
“Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to meet the man who did my brother’s music the justice it deserved. God rest his soul. It’s a great way to remember AJ and Stormrider, and not take away from the impact of the original recording.”

  
“How did Dimash Kudiabergen manage to convince you?”

  
“Let’s just say he’s a damn good ambassador of…music.” She smiled at the journalist who wrote a scathing op-ed after the fire, fiercely defending AJ, the band and her choice to take on Garrison Records to retain ownership of the music AJ left her four years ago and figured they were even. 

  
Jem found himself feeling blessed and gave his own sidelong smile, blue eyes exploding with excitement: “AH, yeah! Dimash, envoy of times to come, eh?”

  
“Sometimes, the boundaries of music are transcended and something…or someone…becomes universal. OK, time’s up. See ya, Jem.”

  
Vasiliy gave him the friendliest of shoves out the car door and the car lurched forward, away from the concert hall and back to the safety of the hotel. Vasiliy ignored his cell blowing up with texts for a solid 10 minutes as he and Crystal silently laid back against the plush interior, idly watching cars zooming by. They both had learned the lesson of decompressing whenever and wherever you could. The Russian smoothed his ruffled blonde hair, ran a finger through the texts and wisely returned the latest one. He lazily informed Crystal: “Dimi has been asking for you. What do you wish to do?” 

  
Crystal debated for a long moment before asking a very important question: ”Does his room have a bathtub?”

  
“Eh…I don’t know. Want me to ask?” 

  
“Nah. He’d only get the wrong idea. He’ll start thinking he’s obligated or something.“

  
Vasiliy permitted himself to laugh, and “Are you sure you’ve never dated a Kazakh? You seem to know the Kazakh mind pretty well for an American. Ehhh..a good sweat would set me to rights. It is so strange a city this large never has any saunas open at night. “

  
“Nah, it’s not like that for he and I. He’s not..I mean , uh, um, I -he never…ahh, you know. I keep it professional. I hear you on the sauna, though…I’m thinking Istanbul, my friend. Let’s make a run for it when we get there. – We are going there, right?”

  
“In about 3 stops, yes. Ah, another text. Take the executive elevator, its faster. Room 1105.” He fished in his pocket planner and offered a security keycard. With a fine sense of humor, he wished Crystal a good night, as he was quite well acquainted with the Kazakh sense of passion. He ribaldly thought she’d be lucky if she was able to walk the next morning. They pulled up to the hotel garage a few minutes later and parted. Crystal wished she’d stopped to at least change into something clean, as the smell of shrimp was still present and becoming stronger every minute. She was beginning to long for loads of hot water and quiet to recharge; she vowed she would only let Dimash take his victory lap for a little while, tell him he did her proud, then get out. It was just a small step past the line between professional and personal. Just this once. 

  
She nodded at the security men outside the room and one sent a text. The door opened and like Alice, she stepped through the mirror of professional demeanor into personal.

  
“Where have you been? Why did you not call me? Answer texts? Is that professional? I should fire you.”

  
He said the last without heat, but he radiated intensity as he spoke; immediately taking her hand, sliding up her arm in a friendly non-pushy caress and destroying her second rule of defense of no physical contact. He led her forward into the suite, gently propelling her into a bathroom the size of her tiny hotel room and busied himself with unbuttoning Vasiliy’s jacket as her jaw dropped, wholly distracted by the luxurious surroundings and delicious scent of Oud and Rose. She stopped him when she realized she'd be standing topless in a matter of seconds and wordlessly dug in the pocket to extract the broken cell phone, holding it out to explain the lack of communication. He clucked and murmured in Kazakh, then drifted off to the living room to text Mr. Kim for phone repair or replacement tomorrow, giving Crystal a badly needed respite from the handsome man. 

  
“Vasiliy said your room did not have a bath. Use this. It will settle your nerves. I have sent for tea.” A hand extended into the room and placed a small pile of clothing on the floor. “I hope you will not be offended by using my clothing. It seems too much to send a security guard to upend your suitcase at this hour.”   
It was too much to resist; she was damn tired and mentally exhausted from handling multiple situations, so she sank into the hot water with an audible sigh until her skin turned pink from the heat and sweat trickled from her scalp; she ducked and rinsed, daringly using the Chinese-labelled bath products and finishing with a quick 3-time hot to cold rinse cycle that she’d picked up in the Marines to energize a tired body. She looked like she was drowning in the lounge pants and t-shirt, but at least she didn’t have to don the odorous outfit lying on the floor again; it was unceremoniously dumped in the trash can and she re-entered the living area.

  
It was much softer, as the lights were dimmed to a comfortable level, and the crackle of a candle in the hotel’s signature scent of Oud and rose lent a softer, flattering light to the furnishings and the familiar sight of Dimash’s lean body, clad in a favorite t-shirt and lounge pants. He looked up from his tablet and gestured her to a chair; the teapot and cups were nearby and he nodded to them casually before changing position and introducing his topic.

  
“I have to make an observation, Crystal Storm. Are you comfortable now? Good. This has been one hell of a trip, when I stand back from my emotions and look from a distance. You did something for me, but in the doing of your job, things have not been happening the way you expected on the tried and true path you take. Do you know why?”

  
She stayed absolutely still, even when he moved nearer and began to finger her hair, her cheek, long fingers drifting down, imprisoning her with invisible chains of fire burning her skin as the tenor softly resonated in her ears. 

  
“I was told we were imperfect beings once. I think you forget you are imperfect also; you let your own pain go untended, you lock it away. When will you let yourself be freed from your prison?”

  
She tried to rise, but was trapped as he swiftly threw a leg over, sliding onto her lap, now her jailer, gripping her jaw as he intently observed her closely, their faces inches apart.   
“What doctor, especially one trained so well to heal the minds of others, lets his own soul die? How terrible of you to tell us all to do what you say, but not to do what you do. Should I hate you? Or heal you?” 

  
Her voice was a cracked whisper, unsure, unsteady: “As a doctor I took an oath to heal, never harm. Protect you, even from myself. Now that I know you, you are one person I don’t ever want to regret…I…I always prayed I wouldn’t live with regrets…”

  
“Save your prayers for the morning after.” 

  
And with that, the room was plunged into darkness as the candle was extinguished and she was ungently pulled forward into a deeper blackness that burned everything she knew away, rising into the night sky in a glitter of incandescent sparks.


	14. Chapter 14

At some point Crystal came to in the darkened suite. Black was the memory of her night, the color of her secret ecstasy; she could not see the dark things that brought her to this state, she could only feel the ebony silk that brushed her skin, hear a black velvet voice whispering words that fell like black stars into the obsidian waters of her soul, then exploded into supernovas, pouring burning waters through her veins.   
It was a torment to see a lamp bloom, she wanted to cling to the blackness, fall back into the deep layer of ashes of the bed and burn herself again in the lightless fire that had consumed her.

  
The pyromaniac who’d set her world on fire carelessly brushed a few embers back to life with an idle caress before hunting pillows and arranging himself to sit up comfortably, reaching for his cell to check messages. 

  
“What time is it?”

  
“About 4:30. “ A hand reached out to caress again, which she avoided. “Stay.” He invited; ”No one except the road crew have to do anything today. Flight time isn’t until after 8 tonight.”

  
She shook her head, donning clothing, recapturing her broken cell and made a rapid path to the door. She had the door open a full six inches before it was firmly shut with a kick and a slim form barred the way. “You are a bad patient, Doctor Storm. Leaving before the treatment is finished?”

  
She was silent, suddenly tongue-tied and flushing. 

  
Dimash tilted his head and assessed her embarrassment before giving his argument: “Our names have been joined by gossip for months and you pay it no mind, and now you worry? Nobody on the tour is concerned anymore. You have proved your worth and work hard. You are one of us now. As for your fear of your reputation, I say this to the idea of professionalism.” He lazily extended a hand in the universal gesture that everyone knew and loved. ”Good for the hospital, but this is real life, Crystal. It’s messy.” Relieved, he saw the expression on her face lighten and relax. He compromised on her escape: ”Ok. Let us go get your clothes. You can look like a professional when you leave.”

  
When they exited the room later at 6:30 AM, security was just coming off the elevator to take up the door post; Dimash managed a straight face as they slipped past into the elevator cab and made their way back into the regular routines built up over the weeks of touring. They ran together on the outdoor walking path on the hotel grounds, tried the gym, and parted when the daily security meeting convened, Dimash to his room to pack and handle any last minute telephone interviews Alpamys or the publicist might have scheduled. The incident last night was well publicized, and public opinion rapidly swinging in favor of Dimash and the tour. Alpamys had an appointment set between the legal teams, and gave Dimash the strictest warning to not say anything more; apparently Garrison records thought it had a say in the rights, stating they were protecting the owner’s interest. They refused to name the owner, but after attempting to stall they finally agreed to meet when the tour stopped in Los Angeles later in fall.

  
A subtle shift in the dynamics between the secret lovers began; Dimash spoke more often now to the teams and the entourage instead of filtering everything through Alpamys or Mr. Kim. Crystal punctuated discussions with her usual conciseness, but there were days she appeared deep in thought, the grey-green irids unfocused and hooded, as if to hide an interior storm that raged inside. 

  
Indeed, she was struggling; she’d never felt this before, and it frightened her. Dimash noticed her disquiet and spent time conversing about the nature of her feelings and was surprisingly wise beyond his years about the subject. “Have you ever even tried to feel this before?...sometimes, we don’t let ourselves to open up fully to the experience because when it ends, the loss is too profound. A mullah told me once he had a moment of divine connection during meditation, and afterwards, he had considered killing himself, because the experience of feeling the perfection of God was ‘too perfect’. His words, yes. I think it’s like getting a dose of pure heroin; it’s an instant addiction and no rush is more powerful than the first. I would be wary of such a feeling, too, if I knew all I’d ever have is something less than that pure, unadulterated moment every time. But I also know the more that you practice, the more familiar something becomes.”

  
_So I’m just avoiding this feeling of intimacy because I’d not recover when it’s over? I’ve read enough psychotherapy to fill a library, but that’s a unique take on this situation. Gods. I like him. I really like him. I could fall. I really could fall. He is so different than anyone else I’ve let myself get close to, and yeah, it’s scaring me. I’m supposed be finding a graceful exit from this and going back to England and write my book at Doc’s estate in Bath, back to lectures and teaching hospitals. But I keep letting myself….and he keeps…drawing me in, instead of growing more independent and distant._

  
By day no one would have even suspected there was anything beyond a pair of professionals who got on well together and felt comfortable enough to have a spat now and again. But the nights were sequined with fireworks and secret flights of ecstastic discovery for the pair. 

  
Dimash, whom had a certain sense of duality in his nature, usually and frequently changing the scenery in his past affaires du tendre, now found himself in an exciting maze and with each turn of direction, became more fascinated with the emotionally scarred woman. He realized it was his pleasure to have his hand on her in the presence of other men, even if it the briefest of touches on the shoulder in a packed green room before the show _. I want to claim her…possess her, to own the right to by her side…._ his mind betrayed him as he fell asleep, presenting tableaus that illustrated that she was his and his alone.  
Crystal slowly began to heal and show small signs of trust and openness to the young man who sent her off to sleep in a soothing haze of murmured Kazakh love-words in the still of the night….but a small bit of her brain stayed awake, hard and glittering with barbs over the unspoken words she had half expected would be spoken….and puzzling over the thought of: _what then, now, of the unspoken promise our bodies have exchanged night after night? How will we feel 20 years from now?_  
  
The tour had finally arrived in Istanbul and everyone was eager to experience the city’s delights as it was a longer stay of two weeks. Vasiliy and Crystal did escape to a hammam at Taksim’s north end for a day, and relaxed over glasses of tea afterwards, almost giddy with freedom and having every joint cracked with great vigor by the attendants. When Crystal rose to go in the late afternoon, Vasiliy casually glanced at his cell and suggested they stay for something to eat; when he attempted to convince her to he wanted to try a dessert of _sekerpare_ , a delightful sweet seminola cookie soaked in lemon syrup, which she knew Vasiliy didn’t like, she put her glass down and said very patiently: “Vasiliy. What is up? You cannot lie worth a damn somedays, you know that?”   
The gorgeous Russian blonde flushed, raised his eyebrows and drank the rest of tea like a shot of vodka, wishing to god it was the liquor before making his admission of guilt. 

  
“Crystal, what do you know of Kazakh ways?”

  
“What ways?”

  
“The ways of relationships. I think you should know more before…um…more than what Dimi has told you. Ah. I see by the look on your face, he has not said much. You can’t lie to me either. Especially after drinking vodka. But no mind, it is worrisome to me that you are with this man, and he says nothing of what life will be like after the tour, or next year, much less 20 years from now. You are a fine woman. I can see your mind turning, you are undecided which direction to take. Maye this will help you decide which turn your road will take. 

  
Kazakhstan allows more than one wife. It’s not outright legal, it was discussed in 2008. About forty percent of men agree to it, but far fewer women do. It has been argued that legalizing polygamous marriage would help balance out the uneven population, while others have cited the Qur'an as an argument.”  
“Ah, yes. A man take up to four wives, provided he can support them.”

“Good to hear you’ve read something. Look…Crystal….even if his parents approved of you, you would never be _baibishes_ , the first wife, I think. You might be offered _Tokal_ , second wife.” He laughed shortly, ill-amused at the local saying: “Almaty is for _baibishes_ and Astana's for _tokals_.” 

  
“Are women allowed multiple husbands?”

  
“No.”

  
“ Oh. A pity. I heard Brad Pitt was divorced. He’d be a nice breath of normal when I get sick of Dimash, eh?” Crystal spoke lightly, but she felt her heart’s scars begin to crack open again. “ I’d better get back. It’s my turn to drive the chorus.”

  
Vasiliy stopped her with a hand over her own. He looked with a serious expression in his grey eyes and very gently said: “Don’t go back yet. He’s….not alone. His girlfriend from Kazhkastan came in with Igor Krutoy, his old mentor last night. I don’t know what you’ll walk into, but I guarantee you, Nursural won’t let you walk out with a job, or your skin, if she sees you are associated to Dimash in anything more than professional.” 

  
“Indeed? Hmm. I’m surprised you are telling me this, Vasiliy. But it’s not unwelcome. I guess we’ve arrived at the crossroads. Oh. One thing. How did you know? About Dimash and I?”

  
“He changed. After the fight. Not you. He gave it away.” 

  
“Not to the whole tour, I hope?”

  
“Just me. I've known him since age 16. Alpamys might suspect, but his lips are sewn shut.”

  
“ _Dasvidanya_ , Vasiliy.” She checked her backpack, shouldered it, and dry-eyed, cracked her new smartphone under the heel of her boot. ”I’ll let you know where I land, once I get there. I don’t need to say don’t tell him, do I? Give Alpamys my regrets, I'll contact him when I get down the road a bit. Tell him to direct any legal inquiries about Stormrider music to Goldberg and Associates in Los Angeles, not Garrison Records.”  
Enraged, sliced into red ribbons of pain inside, she turned on her heel and left. In 3 seconds, she left everything she brought with her, except her backpack & passport. 

  
Oddly, this inconvenient truth did not surprise Crystal, but the girlfriend brought in behind her back was a shock; she was filled with sudden rage and a pain so deep, it was like AJ dying all over again. 

Stock still in the street, jostled by strangers on the sidewalk, she thought: _Was it all just for the music? Everybody wants a piece of AJ now that he’s dead. I promised him. I said I’d never let anyone that wasn’t worth a fuck play his music. I’m sorry AJ – I really thought Dimash was a one-in-a-million, just like you._

  
Dimash, y _ou desperate bastard, what about me? Why am I not enough for you? You go thru hell and high water to bring me in your world, now you bring in a girlfriend you never told me about? Did you leverage my feelings just to get to the music?_ A quiet voice spoke inside her mind: _His world is cruel. His true love is music, not you. He’ll do anything for the music, not you. You’re just a tool. And a fool. Doc was right. There is a borderline personality disorder underneath it all, just suppressed by a dysmorphic period. And I triggered this episode. I am to blame. And I am stopping this game now._

  
Sunset found her sitting at the bridge, watching the beautiful city and her hopes burn down to the ground from the ruddy colors of sunset into the ashes of night. _All my nights will be ashes from now on._ And so, Crystal ended her affair with Dimash. She threw the broken smartphone in the Bosphorus after she bought another. She found a hotel room, carefully changing her exit and entry patterns so she would not be noticed. Disappearing is easier than one can imagine. After all, she had nothing but herself left. She spent her hours watching the river, aimlessly wandering, buying random clothes and toiletries as she remembered to do so, thinking of what direction to take with a thin thread of pain stitching it all together into a crazy quilt of conflicting emotions. 

  
After two days, she was still undecided where to go or what to do, aside from calling Goldberg’s office and telling them she changed her mind about sharing the catalogue. She blocked all calls from the tour members to give herself space. She felt the answer would come soon, if she could just be patient and listened hard enough to the whispers in the soft wind of summer’s end. 


	15. Chapter fifteen

The earthquake hit Istanbul about 5 in the afternoon and reduced the Izmir section by ten percent with collapsed buildings. Everything was disrupted. Crystal, who was at the airport waiting to book a ticket, saw the partially collapsed hotel the Dimash tour had booked on the news and all she could think of going to find him, alive or dead. She knew she had to get him out of there before the looting and civil unrest began to happen….he was so vulnerable; he had only served for the mandatory minimum in the Kazakhstan army when he was 18. Mr. Kim, Vasiliy, even the whole damn security team wouldn’t make a difference in his survival if he were separated from them or away from the hotel or concert hall. Her throat tightened as she thought of the people in the tour she’d known and her friends on the security team, and felt sick as she recalled the shot of the damaged hotel. Their rooms were on the lower levels, but his was the executive level, higher up. It wasn’t just 92 lives, it was 205 now on her soul if she turned away. She began to walk, then run, pushing viciously through the frightened crowds flooding into the airport terminal and breathlessly began searching for the taxi stands. She paid a taxi driver triple and her gold bracelet to get her as close as he could to the hotel in Izmir. He was clever, a madman who took back alleys, walkways thru souks, anything, everything, to get to the Izmir section. He got within a mile before the street was blocked. He shouted _go with god_ as she tore down the street, smoke billowing around the corner. 

  
Rubble was everywhere; sirens droned dully in the distance, the smell of raw sewage and burning tires fouling the air. A block more and bundles of clothes looked randomly strewn on the streets, in doorways, which weren’t always clothes, but human, surrounded with dark puddles and stains with the heavy metallic scent that was blood. Crystal heard a din in the distance, the military quelling something rather large, judging from the amount of people screaming and shots going off. A bundle on the street was in Turkish camouflage; she stopped, cursing at the thought of her big steel safe back at home in America, filled with twin AR15 rifles, a pair of full auto Berettas and an FNH semi-automatic, while checking the corpse for any weapons. She tore off the Kevlar chest plate and buckled it on, wiped the helmet clean of blood & set it aside; the rifle and mace had been taken, but the solider was wise enough to have stashed an automatic pistol in the waistband with a couple of clips in the cargo pocket; a SOG style knife was stuck in his right boot too. She mimicked the dead solider and stuck the gun in her waistband as well, and slipped the knife in her sleeve.

Silently she thanked god as she continued jogging down the streets and alleys that led to the hotel. It was barricaded and hung with warning signs; the doors were smashed, half the windows gone also…She screamed his name at the balcony she remembered was his with no answer from the dark depths. She was able to take the stairs up 7 flights to his suite, but the door was locked – she shot the lock off the door, but all was dark and no one was inside. Tears rose to her eyes as she searched for any clues of his whereabouts or signs there had been an injury but there was no blood, just clothes and music scores. She finally hit on a dropped planner notebook by the door, which she thought was Vasiliy’s, but she couldn’t translate the Russian very well. She did manage to make out there was an appointment time at 4:30, and it was _концертный зал._ No address. _Dimash, where are you? Oh god, please, please let me find him…_.She got back outside and walked down farther She dimly recalled there was a park and a hospital on the other side of the park. She debated looking there as she kept moving, ignoring the din, now fading away to her right - the military was suppressing the riot, but it wasn’t going down pretty.

  
A bus stop was still standing with posters in Turkish for Dimash Kudiabergen and suddenly the word _Konser_ leapt out at her and she connected it with Vasiliy’s planner. They’d been at the concert hall, not in Izmir at the hotel. Taksim. They were in Taksim. Two miles farther in. A deep unreasoning fear welled up as she thought of the entourage in the hall, and all the lighting and stage scenery hanging above their heads, the electrical equipment, the high, delicate arched roof. She saw a motorbike on the side in a doorway and tried it, running down the street, popping the clutch to start it…thank god again, it fired to life. She shot off down the street on full adrenaline alert, heading east to the concert hall. 

  
Nearly 45 minutes later, she skidded as she nearly missed the left turn into the formerly pretty public space in front of the concert hall….it wasn’t so bad there, just mostly cars damaged, glass shattered from buildings, lights out; however, the outdoor fountain and sewers had burst, flooding the street with evil smelling liquids. It was also dark and evacuated, but in the distance, she saw a few people were in the street near a storefront with some of its glass intact; the situation looked grim as three approached a pair, one clearly limping; she couldn’t make out what they were screaming, but it didn’t sound Turkish; fascinated, she saw they were shoving, throwing rocks at the group of men circling like carrion vultures, jumping back as the limping one, blonde as Vasiliy, boldly picked up glass and sliced the air in a familiar, practiced arc. Shocked into action, Crystal gunned the bike full speed, turning all heads - she went into a skid, jumping and rolling as the bike crashed against one man who had started to pummel the limping one he went down in a tangle of limbs. 

  
She whipped out the pistol and started to scream hoarsely at the other two men to leave or die in Turkish. They hesitated, then grinned as they saw she was a woman - and made their fatal mistake in under-estimating the opposite sex. One bearded fellow came at her like she was a child; Crystal calmly lowered her weapon, shot him through the knee, then kicked him in the head when he went down screaming…the one armed with a crowbar raised it to strike and she simply shoved the pistol in his neck and asked: “Are you ready to meet Allah?” The crowbar dropped with a clatter and Vasiliy, recovering from the shock of Crystal’s attack, drove a kick to the small of the would-be thief’s back, then savagely kicked him a few more times until he laid there, twitching.

Dirty, dusty, sweaty & wild-eyed, the remaining three, Vasiliy, Dimash and Crystal, all just stared at each other, until Vasiliy eventually let his face crack into a crooked grin, and sat down with a groan and broke the silence: 

  
“Do you have a working phone? Where the hell did you come from? Is the rest of city as bad as this?” 

  
Crystal unsteadily sat herself, dug in a pocket for her cell, handed it to Vasiliy, tried to reassure him by saying: “I think the worst part was Izmir; the hotel is evacuated. The airport was just on backup generators and had some broken glass.”

  
“Why did you leave the airport & come here? Did you forget all that fancy American Marines training?”

  
“All I could think of was getting to….Dimash….I…I thought he needed help…I..I…would you leave someone you loved in such a disaster without an offer to help?” Head hanging in shame, she fell silent. She had finally come up against the truth she was so desperately avoiding in the past two days - she was still in love with the man; it was no casual affair to her, like it was to him. 

  
Crystal silently proffered the gun to Vasiliy; he hesitated then took it. With tired sigh she turned to the reason for all of her craziness in the past 3 hours and finding her voice again, she said, “I am glad to know you are alive, thanks to God.”

  
Dimash was still standing stock still, traumatized at the violence so casually committed in front of him...for him…because of him. Belatedly, Crystal realized his soul must have had a huge shock - he had never seen war or been exposed to violence like Vasiliy or she had been through. 

  
She struggled to her feet, looked him in the eye as she quietly asked: “Have you been hurt? Did they hurt you? Are you bleeding anyw--?”

  
He suddenly threw his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder, with a muffled wordless keen of pain. Vasiliy regained his footing, stepped over and gently helped pat him, softly speaking Kazakh endearments to Dimash interspersed with Russian; the three were held there for a moment in God’s hand, trying to comfort each other and not despair at the disaster. 

  
Shuddering, Dimash raised his tear streaked face as he tried to say something in Kazakh to Crystal; she shook her head, not fully understanding, and he snapped, snarling in more unknown Kazakh, then simply shoved Crystal away from him. He stepped back and began to pick up the bike, rolling it to the street and trying to kickstart the engine, distancing himself from three damaged thieves and two natural born killers who called themselves his friends. Failing to start the bike, he cursed some more, sobbed in rage, and shoved it into a car; he sat on the curb in a crouch and began to weep. Vasiliy caught Crystals’ eye, and they dragged off the unconscious assailants; Vasiliy was muttering in Russian and as they finished dumping the last man in a dumpster, he shot the star a rather annoyed look:

  
“I cannot believe he is being such a stupid bastard right now.” At that, Vasiliy stopped, took Crystal’s grime-streaked face in his hands and gently kissed her cheeks, now exclaiming in Russian pitched to carry: “I don’t know how you could have thought of Dimash in all this craziness, but I am forever grateful that God had directed you to do so. You came in like an eagle.”

  
A brief smile lit up Vasiliy’s grey eyes and he gently laughed: “There. He’s seen us kissing. You should see his eyes. If you want to rub salt in the cut, grab my ass and pretend I’m Brad Pitt.” 

  
The troubled mood broke and the pair began to giggle inappropriately at the last conversation; Crystal eyed him and dryly stated: “Almatys for first husbands and Istanbul for second husbands, yes?” 

The three stayed at the concert hall for a while, Vasiliy walking up and down the street with her cell, trying different numbers until he got through to a friend, someone in Ankara, who relayed the message to closer family and friends. Eventually two men arrived, armed to the teeth and embracing Vasiliy like family. Their arrival woke something up in Dimash; he got up and silently stood close to Crystal as two more men arrived with medical supplies to treat them, then even more silently, put an arm firmly around her waist, when Vasiliy’s friend’s brother asked me if Crystal had a boyfriend or family here.  
Eventually they agreed on a plan, and after a long walk to a pair of cars hidden at a mechanic’s shop, the younger brother of Vasiliy’s friend insisted on driving them all back to Crystal’s hotel in Karakoy, where he said it was safer. Bedraggled, filthy, exhausted, they strolled into the lobby; security thought they were intruders until Crystal showed her room key - luckily the night desk clerk remembered her as well. She thanked him dearly as if he were her long lost friend and politely whispered her guest’s name and begged for their indulgence. Vasiliy asked if water was available in the room, enough for a shower or bath. They recommended a bath to use less water, there would be rationing until damages were assessed. 

  
Crystal made Vasiliy use the bath first, and offered her small stash of clothing, while she made do with a washcloth in the sitting room, after gently pushing Dimash into the bedroom with a towel and an ice bucket filled with warm water. Vasiliy groaned as he struggled with the pants and exited the suite to see if the night clerk could be persuaded to open the gift shop and get a pair that fit his athletic physique. 

So, stripping off the now useless Kevlar chest plate and ripped jacket, Crystal crawled into the bathtub refilled with warm water and just tried to wash off the events of the evening. She laid there, exhausted from the unexpected rollercoaster of emotions as her eyelids turned to lead and began to slip off, until she felt a washcloth smooth itself down her arm and gently agitate the bruised knuckles and fingers. She opened her eyes to a frowning Dimash, ebony hair dipping over an obsidian eye as he concentrated on treating her damaged body. 

  
“I should have done this the first time I saw your hands like this. Again. I am responsible. You could have died. Is the weight of 92 souls so much you must do this, for one that doesn’t deserve it?” His voice cracked, and he dropped the washcloth to cover his eyes, angrily wiping tears away as he regained control of his emotions. 

  
“You’re not responsible.” 

  
“How am I not?” 

  
She replied in the quietest voice imaginable: “It’s only 91 souls now. You were right. I didn’t want to have a perfect moment of love again, because the emptiness afterwards is too much. I’m not in control now, and I wasn’t when AJ died. I…accept that what I want I cannot have. With you.”

  
She looked up at him , her grey-green irids hard as jade, steeling herself to look her last upon a beautiful, talented young man who would go onto an extraordinary life in a world she could never be in; he met her gaze with a look of an old man’s, patient, enigmatic and slowly filling with tears as if she had stabbed him in the heart and felt the deepest betrayal of trust and love. And like an old man, he slowly knelt on the tiled floor, in the humble stance of the supplicant at prayer in the mosque and appealed with all the strength he had left after this earthshaking day of destruction:

  
“My life is yours. All I have is yours. No one but you came. I would be dead without you. Vasiliy would be dead. My life is yours. Whatever you wish of me, I will do. Anything you wish, I will give you.”

  
Images of desire swam before Crystal’s eyes – she envisioned herself in Astana, London, married to this gorgeous creature, wealthy, pampered, …she could demand anything, sex, a boy toy, a husband, his mother washing her dishes, an apartment, arms full of twinkling gold bangles, private jets while he was on tour, anything….everything….with a mental sigh, she put them away, because it felt like she was putting his soul on a chain to have him beholden to her _…I like my Eros with its wings unclipped, so to speak…love isn’t about a balance of power over someone, you know, God?_

  
Mentally envisioning herself slitting her own throat, she said: “Dimash, you have nothing I want that I can’t get for myself….would you reward me with enslaving yourself to a person like me for the rest of your life? I would done the same for any friend I had here. I wished to honor what we had, brief as it was. You are released from any debt to me. Go back home, to your life, your girlfriend in Almatys.”

  
He looked shocked and she continued:“Look, don’t you see it? Fate brought us together for a reason - I was meant to meet you, and go through all this….it planned for me to intervene….it was ordained…”

  
At the word ordained issuing from her lips, it was like a great bell had resounded in the air between them; they realized a simple truth about why all this happened. Crystal ceased to struggle in her soul; _we were meant to meet…. and now, my purpose is fulfilled; fate will move on & will take us apart._


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Crystal did not struggle or protest when he caught her hands in his own, staring at her in utter amazement, as if he’d seen her for the very first time in his life. He treated her with the utmost respect, helping her from the bath, draping her with towels and pestemals, gently combing her hair, as if to stall their parting for as long as he could. Every time their eyes met, some unspoken, invisible communication happened; it felt like he was measuring how many grains of sand were left in the hourglass, bringing on another wave of emotional distress all over again. She pulled on what clean clothing she had then walked away to the balcony so he could leave without seeing her weep. She quietly sighed, steeling herself for the sound of a door closing on the what everyone would call the opportunity of a lifetime….but all she could hear was silence…silence… _this city is so quiet tonight._ Dimash’s hands appeared on the balcony railing beside her and he leaned on it, looking down at the street below, then at her with the with the same direct gaze. 

  
“If this was truly ordained, then it will be difficult to let go of what destiny has brought together with such force. Perhaps the road we are on doesn’t part tonight…just wait and see, all will be revealed. Just do not leave right now. Give it a chance.”

  
A few moments later: “You never came back that afternoon, why? Why did you leave me? Why, for god’s sake? WHY?”

  
“I planned to. Until Vasiliy tried to keep me away…and we had a conversation. An honest conversation.”

  
“…and what did you converse of?” he asked in a dangerously quiet tone.

  
“Vasiliy was being kind to me and looking out for you at the same time. So don’t you dare growl at him. He asked me not to go back, because you were with your girlfriend. He was concerned about me being with you, too. He thought you were not treating me with respect, since you didn’t tell me about Kazakh social rules. That I’d never be considered…accepted by Kazakhs. ‘ _Beibishes_ in Almatys and ‘ _Tokals_ ’ in Astana? My social rules are one to one, not one to many. And when I thought of you concealing all of this from me and the fact you kept asking for AJ’s masters made me conclude your motives were in your own self-interest. I realized you’d do anything for fame. It also made me realize even if you really did like me, I could hold you back. You…your talent…you belong to the world…I…I don’t…it will always be somebody else the world expects on your arm in public….the new actress, the hot model, or even the owner of AyaTurk records…I felt I had no place in your world, even though I have fallen in love with you.”

  
Quietly he began to speak; “Of all the words you’ve spoken tonight, the last gives me hope. Can you listen to me without walking away? Vasiliy is good, but sometimes he misses the obvious, Crystal. The best place to hide something is underneath his nose somedays. And I’ve been hiding something for a long time.” He sighed, dropping head in his hands momentarily. “I’ve had to do a lot of things to advance my career; Igor Krutoy is a man with talent and power that has invested in me. He’s a wonderful man, cherishes his family. He promotes family harmony; so I played politic and told him I hope to have a family with Nursural one day. I won’t lie, I date her. She thinks since she has known me longest and held onto my goodwill, she will be _beibish_. But the truth is I…I don’t want to be a family man. My first wife…my _beibish_ is music. Krutoy is getting pushy about announcing an engagement; he has a huge influence on the world of classic music in Russia, China, Asia. I felt I could not afford to have him turn against me. So I have done all he has asked. So…you’re right. I’d do anything for fame. But at the same time, I’m trying to keep from being hammered into someone else I cannot be. I did not intend it, but I wish to use your brother’s music as a key to my freedom, Crystal. If I can go to popular music, Krutoy has little influence. And I love it. ”

  
A distant slam of a door behind them was heard; Dimash glanced over, let a knuckle steal a caress from her cheek before continuing: “Vasiliy returns. Don’t you dare leave me now. I will find a way for this between us to run its course naturally. Can we talk later?” He turned to go inside to Vasiliy, who was holding up a bag and a bottle triumphantly, but glanced back and mouthed ‘don’t go’ with a secret promise in his eyes.

  
There were no aftershocks for the rest of the evening, unless one could feel the pounding of Crystal’s heart on the little balcony. 

  
A lazy beam of sunlight burned into Crystal’s eyelids and she awoke with a curse, floundering for a pillow to block the intrusion and finding none, she sat up in bed suddenly, gaping at the mess. She had no idea when they collapsed on the beds, but it seemed the three had a helluva after-party to the quake. Bottles of vodka stood empty, along with a litter of glasses, food containers and damp towels. Vasiliy and Dimash were already gone, and after a frantic search, she discovered her cell phone had gone with them. She tore through another ablution in the bath, and made her way to the front desk; she was hung over as hell, and felt disoriented from the disaster of the previous day. 

  
The front desk clerks did not let her use the phone. and she fumed a bit before a message was handed to her; annoyed, she leaned on the expensive marble counter to read it, moving as more guests lined up with their demands. Unsurprisingly, she noted Vasiliy and Dimash went out to ensure the entourage was safe, and see how much equipment was damaged at the concert hall. What was surprising was the command to rejoin the tour, and to get herself to the concert hall ASAP. She resigned herself to her fate, and shouldered her backpack for a long walk. 

  
She managed to bribe a delivery man on a motor scooter when she hit the edge of Izmir, and eventually got past the cordoned barriers around the hall and a pair of armed guards. About 85% of the entourage was gathered and all were working like devils to salvage as much of their gear as possible. She joined in, but was dragged off after a security man recognized her and nearly smothered by the security crew before being led to Alpamys, whom she had hugged effusively, despite his sprained his wrist and broken eyeglasses.

  
So, she stayed with the tour to the very end, nine more weeks of quiet bliss interspersed with visits from what seemed half of Kazakhstan and Russia for having saved the lives of their kinsmen, Vasiliy and Dimash. The story of the American eagle made its rounds, and the security team was toasted with enough vodka to make even the stalwart Mr. Kim stop drinking. They all wanted to keep her, she knew. But again, she thought of Dimash being chained to a life he didn’t want and realized this time was precious, savor it, yet let it go when the time approaches. It hurt, but it was a joy to be alive and just be near him.

  
Time was rapidly winding down on the last day of the tour, when the usual late night knock on the door was not the security guard to usher her to Dimash’s door, but the man himself. Silently, she let him in. They sat cross-legged on the bed, drinking in the sight of each other. He smiled, the smile failing to reach his eyes; he hung his glossy black head, and began to speak. He hoarsely admitted – “I am wrong-wrong about everything when it comes to you. You have shamed me; when I look into my heart, I am shallow, hollow - all is display - you are the hard truth, the hard rock I need in my life - none, none stand up to me, not even my father. But you did so without any hesitation; there is no falter in the footsteps your soul tells you to take. I cannot live without you in my heart, yet the worlds is pulling us apart - how do I keep you in my heart?” 

  
“Being ordained to meet does not mean being ordained to stay, my friend.”

“ I know. But in asking myself that impossible question, I think I have found a way. Do you trust me?”

  
“Yes” was the quiet admission.

  
“Come with me. Now.”

  
He impatiently took her hand and strode through the hotel until they reached his suite; Vasiliy was at the door, an enigmatic look passing between the two men before they entered the elegant sitting room. A young man in cleric’s robes greeted them with an aged man on his arm, leaning heavily for support yet with a spry gleam in his dark eyes. A gentle sonorous voice begins to speak in Russian:

  
“From this day forward, you shall not walk alone; my heart will be your shelter; there is no ecstasy greater than knowing you, even if it should take a lifetime. Beloved one, accept this gift from a humble heart, whom promises to care for your wellbeing with all strength he has, and as long as he has breath in his body.” The young cleric brings forward a document, wordlessly urging her to inspect it; stunned Crystal reads that ten percent of Aslim LLC earnings, half of what the man standing across from her earns from said company, is now hers for life. “ A princely gift, indeed, yes?” the young monk murmured, before he offered her a pen to sign her name. As he turned, a hand wordlessly stopped him. Crystal removed a necklace, its gold chain worn and dented, discolored from smoke and flame 5 years and 17 days ago. 

  
“Here. Every bride must bring a dowry.”

  
Dimash fingers the dangling pendant, a USB drive scratched with initials AJ. He suddenly looks at her in wonderment as he realizes she has given him more than Stormrider’s master recordings, but also a priceless gift: total freedom. 

  
The pair are instructed to say _Qabul_ three times to seal the ceremony, then the old cleric finishes with his blessing and prayer, and it is done. With a cackle he pronounces with great gusto: “Courage is a love affair with the unknown. Go with God, and trust in each other with all your hearts, my children.”

  
A beautiful young groom with eyes brimming over with emotion very slowly takes his bride’s hands and leans forward, dropping a chaste kiss softly on her forehead and even more softly whispers: ”Now we…are We.”

  
The bride tries to reach out to him as he steps back and gazes back with a look of finality that tells her the last grain of sand has run out of the hourglass, receding as if he were a dream. Vasiliy finds her standing still as a statue in the empty room; she looks over as he stoically waits for her; her eyes fall upon the worn tea set that has travelled the world with them, and she almost smiles as she picks up a turquoise cup, then idly states: ”Of all the time I’ve spent with pouring tea on this job, I’ve had only six cups of tea with him. How well does one know a man in Kazakhstan if you have six cups of tea with him?”

  
“Well enough, if you trust him.”

  
With an unspoken, uplifting feeling she felt flooding her veins, and an eagerness to see the road ahead, she firmly replied: “Yeah. I trust him.” _What I seek is seeking me._

  
And somewhere a singer goes on singing to the world , the universe and whatever god there is, that he has love to give and is grateful he can love with all his heart. _Do you hear me? Do you feel me? I am seeking you. Are you seeking me?_

Sometimes, you get lucky. And you find what’s been looking for you.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_Two years later, Malibu Beach, California, USA_

  
The morning waves were a good set, steady rollers of six to eight feet that typically start up before dawn and slack off by noon. After a good ride for about forty-five minutes, the surfer coasted in without a hitch. Once the wetsuit was discarded and she was dressed, she broke into a hurried trot after checking her cell, back to the one of the houses hovering above on the cliff, taking the stairs two at a time.

  
Then she behaved oddly, as if she wanted to be invisible, and seemed to succeed, entering the house unseen by the crowd that had gathered outside. She called from inside and was soon engaged in a heated conversation:

  
“What happened? There’s a nice crowd of reporters outside, and two news trucks. Was I too controversial last night? Did the lecture piss off someone on the board? Did I forg---WHAT?”

  
She ran to her laptop, pounding the keyboard in frustration as it booted. 

  
“OKokokok….whoa. I see. Yup, that’s some news, alright. Send a car. I can stave off this lot with empty promises…..No. There’s no need to notify Aslim Records. Let George coordinate the statements.” Then quieter: ”No. I've had no contact.”

  
Crystal Storm armored herself in an Armani suit and sunglasses before emerging from her humble oceanfront ranch and making her way to the waiting car; the journalists were a noisy lot, all shouting questions.

  
“Did you sell Stormrider to Aslim Music? Did you know about the dedication to you and AJ? Are you going to file against Aslim, like you did with Garrison? Garrison is saying you might have sold the rights to Stormrider, can you confirm that?”

  
Crystal cut them off with a supremely cool face and a well-practiced light tone: “I’ll be happy to make a statement once I get confirmation of what the situation is in detail. Otherwise, it’s all smoke and mirrors, boys and girls. Now, let me head over to Goldberg and his team and you can hit me up for all the gossip later. If ya’ll don’t know the address, then shame on you.”

  
“But what about the singer? Do you know Dimash Kudaibergen? Do you know where he is? “

  
She shrugs, appearing bored: “Somewhere like Kazakhstan, I expect.”

  
“Is it true he has two women, a wife in Astana, and a girlfriend in Almatys?”

  
She pauses mid-step and is a little too deliberate with the car door and seatbelt before sticking her head out the window replying without heat: ”Idiot. It’s Almatys for _beibishes_ and Astana for _Tokals_. And I wouldn’t be surprised if his _beibish_ is music, ya know?” 

  
As the car drives down the road, her cell chimes and she picks up without looking:“What?”

A long-unheard, yet unforgotten tenor announces in Russian: “Aslim will refute your ignorant and foolish gossip about Dimash’s Beibish.”

 _How the hell did that get out so fast? Some ass must have livestreamed me._ She counterattacked: “Shut up. 2nd husbands are in Almatys.”

“…And _beibishes_ are at the beach.” The call disconnects.

  
 _Oh.My.God. A plant. I’m going back and I am going to kill them_. ”Turn around! Driver! Quick! Please!”

  
_“Nyet.”_

  
Startled, she looks at the driver; he is standard corporate security, with a massive build and close cropped hair that could be blonde; he tips his aviators down and Vasiliy’s grey eyes glint with secret humor. He pleasantly informs her: “Aslim Music wishes to negotiate terms of reparation to the assault on his character.” He pauses delicately, enjoying the fiery spark igniting in the woman’s eyes, before politely adding a nuclear bomb of a qualifier:

“Personally.”

  
_-To be continued?-_


End file.
